Ghosts and Demons
by Wolfeschatten
Summary: Dean finally tells Sam the last words of John Winchester before dying, but neither can face the reality. Sam wanders to Beacon Hills after a woman blacks out and murders her seemingly unfaithful husband, but a ghost is the least of the town's problems. Werewolves, sacrifices, demons, and psychics complicate matters. SPN season 2. TW season 3A
1. Chapter 1

**I hope people like this idea cause I really liked it and thought it worked. The only thing is I had to screw with the time table a little. So Supernatural is simply moved forward by seven years so Sam was born in 1990 instead of 1983. Nothing has really changed except that the month in Teen Wolf may be in the middle of the school year instead of the beginning of it.**

**Timeline: after season 3A of Teen wolf and during the episode season 2 x 10 in Supernatural where Sam leaves Dean cause he kept his father's last words from him.**

* * *

He had to get away, that much he knew. He needed to breathe, and after the bombshell Dean had dropped earlier that day, the only way he could do that was by putting a good couple hundred miles between him and his brother.

Sam looked around first. It was late so no one should be out watching, but he'd rather not be on the cop's radar. No one was there, as he had thought, and Sam jimmied the ancient car's lock before getting in and jumping the engine's wires.

"Sorry, Dean," he mumbled, almost unconsciously.

~•~

**10:50 P.M.**

He had thought he was done with the heinous crimes—what with Jennifer Blake gone—and yet here he was again, looking at a bloody, mutilated corpse. But luckily—and there was something horribly wrong when a murder could be considered lucky—he had a clear suspect who admitted to the crime and was more importantly purely human. Of course she also claimed she blacked out after feeling an undeniable rage over a cheating husband.

Sheriff Stilinski sighed and nodded to the coroners who wanted to take away the dead man. His pocket buzzed but Sheriff Stilinski ignored it. At least he tried to, but the blasted thing kept repeatedly ringing.

"Not now," he snapped into the speaker without looking at the I.D. He ended the call and approached the victim's brother, who had been the one to call the police. According to his affidavit, he had forgotten to pick up the key for the office and had returned home. After entering the dining room and seeing his brother dead, he had called 911 and found his sister-in-law bloodied in a corner.

"And you didn't see anyone else in the house?" The sheriff queried.

Joshua Kyle, the dead man's brother, attempted to say no, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat roughly and shook his head, wringing his hands raw.

"No," he croaked. "And the, uh, doors were locked. God, I can't believe Chrissy would..." He broke off and wrought his hair with his hands. "Today was their one year anniversary."

Sheriff Stilinski was about to comfort the man when his phone vibrated again. He ignored it, but again it continued to buzz. Mr. Kyle, glad for the distraction but also confused, stared at the sheriff, pointing to the flashing gadget on his belt.

"Are you going to get that?"

The sheriff clenched his jaw and sighed. "Yeah, sorry. Excuse me." He stepped away from the witness, into the conjoining kitchen, and flipped open his phone. "Stiles," he sighed. "I'm working."

"I know," came his son's voice. There was a silence on the other end long enough for the sheriff to wonder if Stiles had dropped the call.

"Why are you calling me?"

"What killed him?" Stiles demanded in a rushed voice.

"A kitchen knife."

He paused again, although Stilinski heard muffled voices, like Stiles was covering the speaker with his palm. He exchanged a few obscured words then continued the bombardment on his dad. "Just a knife? No nibbling or teeth marks? What about sacrificial carvings? Cause the sacrifices looked like a psychopathic serial killer before we figure out Ms. Bla—"

"Stiles," the sheriff shouted a little too loudly. A few deputies glanced over curiously, but given everyone who worked in the Beacon Hills Police Station knew Stiles's tendency to involve himself in his father's affairs. "I'm busy."

"Yeah, but you never know—"

"It was a crime of passion. Wife thought husband was cheating and blacked out. When she came to, she was covered in blood and holding a kitchen cleaver. As tragic as it is, there' son need for you or your _friends_ involved."

"Oh."

Sheriff Stilinski couldn't tell if his son was relieved or disappointed. There was more muffled talking over the line and the sheriff could tell something wasn't right. Stiles was planning something, the sheriff just knew it.

"Well, good. Your dinner is in the fridge—the veggie burger. I'm going to stay at Scott's for a while. Don't wait up." Stiles ended the call before his father could get a word in edgewise.

_Yup_, the sheriff thought, staring at the blank screen of his phone, _his son was definitely planning something._

~•~

**10:57 P.M.**

Stiles stared at his phone screen before dropping it in his pocket and returning his gaze to the house encompassed by red and blue flashing lights. Scott and Isaac were looking at him expectantly, each from their spot in the blue jeep.

"He says it's not supernatural," Stiles stated.

"Yeah, but how often do these sorts of things actually happen?" Isaac asked softly.

"18.3 percent of the time in small towns," Stiles replied without hesitation. Scott raised his eyebrows in surprise, glancing behind him at his friend while Isaac sat in between the front seats stoically.

"Okay..."

"He said the woman thought her husband was cheating so she killed him. With a kitchen knife. Like a Christmas ham."

"Stiles!"

"Sorry." Stiles frowned and stared at his father's police car. Something felt off about this. Nothing happened in Beacon Hills that wasn't supernaturally influenced. Especially after they had done that spell to find the nemeton. Denton said there would be consequences, maybe this is the first of many things to happen.

"—we should go."

Stiles caught the tail end of what Scott was saying.

"What?"

Scott smiled shortly and repeated what he had said. "I still think we should go and check out the crime scene. I mean we're here and there's no reason _not_ to make sure nothing's wrong."

Stiles nodded slowly. "They should be heading out soon. But I am _not_ climbing through another window."

~•~

**2:16 A.M.**

Scott wrinkled his nose as soon as he stepped through the ground floor window. Stiles wondered what was wrong until he too smelt one of the foulest scents he'd ever smelt before. The tangy copper was so thick and overwhelming; Stiles could physically taste the pungent odor. He waved his hand in front of him in an attempt to blow away the smell, the light of the flashlight spiraling wildly across the family pictures in the living room. Scott caught Stiles's wrist and halted the movement, giving him "the alpha look" as Stiles had dubbed it.

"We don't want anyone to know we're here," he reminded his friend.

No sooner had he said it did Isaac crash through the open window, jumping to his feet and brushing himself off like nothing had happened. He nodded to his surrogate alpha then switched on his own flashlight. Stiles grinned at Scott before making his way to the hallway, glancing at the pictures as he went by. A petite woman with cropped brunette curls beamed in every picture and beside her was an equally happy young man. Compared to his wife, the man was a giant, probably able to put up his own against Derek.

Stiles's grin slipped off his face as he remembered off his face as he remembered this bouncy, giggling woman had just carved her husband up because of a hunch. Again, a feeling clenched his gut—a feeling that something was definitely out of the ordinary.

Stiles, closely followed by Scott and Isaac, stopped short the moment he saw the aftermath of the crime. Five enormous puddles of dried blood stained the off-white carpet like a star. Little flecks of blood deviated from the larger splotches and created a small outline of the deceased's body, like someone had painted with the blood. Stiles thought the imprint looked off, the size of the body much smaller than the ginormous man in the photos.

"Oh, God," whispered Isaac, pinching closed his nose.

Stiles stooped closer to the stains, angling his flashlight to get a better look at the figure. To him, it looked like the blood was purposely spattered, the way it was perfectly sprayed along the floor, and it looked familiar. Stiles just couldn't place where he had seen the scene before. It also didn't hell his flashlight was continuously cutting out.

"Scott, hand me your flashlight. I think mine's dying."

Scott passed his over, but even before it changed hands, the second flashlight sputtered a few times before it too died. The three friends exchanged glances. Isaac eyed his own light with trepidation, holding it like it might burn him.

"It's probably nothing, right?" Scott suggested. "I mean we use them all the time. They're probably just out of batteries."

"I changed the batteries two days ago," Stiles deadpanned. He smacked his flashlight a few times, earning a couple strobes of light, but in the end it stayed dead. "Great. Scott, Isaac, your spidey sense tingling yet?"

Scott made a show of sniffing the air, two glowing red eyes illuminating out of the darkness. Isaac followed the alpha's example. Not for the first time, Stiles felt a slight flicker of jealousy, but then it was gone. He didn't want to be a werewolf. He was happy being research guy, guy with a plan.

"Do you hear that?" whispered Isaac suddenly. He was asking Scott, but Stiles still attempted to hear whatever the beta was hearing.

"No," he said.

"Yes." Scott threaded lightly over to the base of the stairs. "It sounds like it is coming from up there."

"What is it?"

The werewolves ignored their friend unintentionally and began to mount the stairs. They walked sideways, angling their heads to hear better. Stiles scowled and followed behind his friends, waving his arms widely.

"Feel like letting me in on the secret? Guys? Normal human here, with _normal_ hearing!" Still receiving no reply, Stiles was left to watch Scott and Isaac as they neared to second floor.

"Guys—!"

"Stiles, shut up!"

Stiles snapped his jaw shut.

"It sounds like...someone's screaming in a whisper."

"Well that makes sense. Remind me to sign you up for a poetry class," Stiles groused sarcastically. He met Scott's glare evenly and continued in a slightly less aggravating tone, "can you make out what they're saying?"

"No," began Scott, but he stopped suddenly, causing Isaac to lightly crash into him. He held up a silencing finger before Stiles could break the quiet, but within a minute, Stiles didn't need an explanation from his supernaturally gifted friends. He _saw_ it.

A woman stood on the landing of the stairs, shadowed by an ominous light behind her. She looked young with vibrantly golden hair that cascaded along one side of her head. She wore a radiant, silk gown that, under normal circumstances, would have been beautiful; however, in the baleful darkness, she had a monstrously beautiful appearance. Not to mention the blood that was coursing down her arms in rivers. Looking closer, more blood stained the golden evening gown like she had been leaning over a bloody surface. _Or a bloody corpse_, supplied Stiles.

"_Get out!_" The woman hissed, though Stiles was unable to see any actual movement. It was like the voice had come from the walls themselves.

"Uh..." Scott stuttered intelligently.

"_**Get out!**_" The lights everywhere in the house flickered on and off rapidly, the radio and T.V. flicking through every station and channel, the photos rattling against the drywall.

All of a sudden the woman charged, but not in any sense that made her animalistic or human. Her form flickered and reappeared as it lunged for the boys on the stairs. In their rush to escape the bloody apparition—_because it is an apparition_, concluded Stiles—Scott and Isaac tumbled bodily over each other and down the flight of stairs. They landed in a pile at Stiles's feet, and the three used each other as leverages to get _out_ of the house. All three boys stumbled to the front door in the darkness, forgoing any thoughts or attempts at being stealthy. They shouted and yelped as they fumbled with the door, eventually pouring out onto the porch.

The flailing limbs continued as their eyes remained fixed behind them and they fled the house and whatever that woman was. However their flight was halted when they collided with a solid figure. Again, the boys called out in surprise, and fear.

"Dad?" Stiles squeaked.

Sheriff Stilinski was watching his son and his friends with disbelief, bemusement, and plain amusement. He glanced behind the boys before his gaze shifted to furious and fell on the three delinquents.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He hissed. "This is a crime scene!"

He ran a hand down his face, trying to rid himself of the stress he obviously felt, before he snagged the scruff of Stiles's hoodie and began dragging his son off the porch. Predictably, Scott and Isaac followed closely behind, still watching the front door with fear.

"You can't even break into a house without making a big scene," the sheriff admonished. "You could have woken the entire street with the amount of noise you were making. And what was the deal with the light show?" Stiles's father had directed them back to the blue jeep and lightly tossed Stiles against the contorted hood. "Not to mention, I already told you the case was un-supernatural!"

"Wouldn't it be referred to as normal at that point?"

The glare fixed on Stiles was enough to freeze the sun. His father pointed to the driver's seat without a word. Stiles dropped his head in shame but still didn't get in.

"Okay, fine. But listen—"

"No, Stiles. I told you to stay out of it—"

"But it's not—"

"—and you still went—"

"—we saw—"

Scott and Issac watched the back and forth dialogue silently. Both Stilinski's were climbing in volume as one tried to top the other.

"Enough!" barked Scott, his eyes flashing red. The two fell silent and stared at the alpha in shock. "What Stiles is trying to say is that it's not as normal as it seems."

The sheriff's face fell and he looked back and forth between the three teenagers. "What do you mean?" he questioned warily.

"What we mean," Stiles said, taking the lead, "is that there is no way that woman killed her husband without a little help."

~•~

—**A few days later—**

Sam wasn't sure this was his best plan, but he didn't really have any other idea or choice. He'd just have to hope Ellen wouldn't turn him in to his brother, who would without a doubt be murderously pissed. He had ditched his phone after the fourth call, and he had only just picked up a new one when he thought of a plan.

Steeling his reserve, Sam parked his stolen station wagon and walked into the Roadhouse. It was just as he remembered, which was comforting since everything in his life was so recently turned upside down. The bar was still inherently dark and stuffy, and most of the patrons were either drinking and playing pool or cleaning various weaponry and bragging about a recent kill. Sam guessed today was one of those days where hunters outnumbered the normal people ten to one. Actually normal people were too frightened to enter a den like this.

Behind the bar, buffing the counter, Ellen stopped mid-stroke as her gaze fell on the man who had just wandered in. Sam froze, waiting to gauge her reaction, and let out a sigh of relief when she smiled.

"Sam," she greeted. "What brings you here?"

"Hey, Ellen," he smiled in return, plopping down on a bar stool. "I wasn't sure if I should come seeing as what happened last time I saw you and Jo."

"Nonsense," the bartender waved him away with a slight smile.

"How're you? And Jo?" He asked while fiddling with the edge of the wooden counter. Ellen caught Sam's glancing about the bar and casually went back to cleaning her station, this time picking up a few glasses and scrubbing them clean with a rag.

"I'm good. Now Jo, I'm not really sure," Ellen said without meeting Sam's eyes. "She sends post cards now and again, but I haven't seen her in weeks." She smiled sadly and slid a beer over the counter. "After she worked that job with you boys, she decided she wanted to keep on hunting. I said 'not under my roof,' and she said 'fine.'"

Sam fingered his glass awkwardly and smiled guiltily at the floor, not wanting to meet Ellen's accusing glare. Finally he muttered, "I guess I'm probably one of the last people you want to see then." When he looked up, though, Ellen's expression was anything but accusing. Instead it was softly pained, maternal.

She gave a throaty laugh, "Oh, don't get me wrong. I wish I could blame the hell out of you boys. It'd be easier. Truth is, it's not your fault, Sam, none of it is. I want you to know that I forgave your daddy a long time ago for what happened to my Bill. I just don't think he ever forgave himself." There were tears in her voice but Ellen shook her hair out of her face and rested her arms against the countertop. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

Sam paused deliberately and took a gulp of his beer before replying. He wondered how much of the story he could avoid talking about, if he could get what he wanted without mentioning Dean once. His hopes were dashed as Ellen seem to sense his inner turmoil.

"You wanna tell me why you're not with your brother?"

Sam's gaze met hers sharply. "He called you?" he inferred softly.

"He's been calling, worried sick, looking for you. What's goin' on between you two?"

Sam's jaw tensed and he glared fixedly at the water sweating down to side of his glass. He was probably angrier that Dean had kept it from him than what his father had actually said. Sure it disturbed him beyond anything that his father told Dean he might have to _kill_ his little brother, but Dean should have trusted Sam enough to tell him. But Dean didn't trust him. Sam was just his rebellious, idiot brother who ran away after having a temper tantrum, and apparently the next time he has a fit, his big brother may have to put him down, like an animal, a monster.

Sam ground out between clenched teeth, "he lied." He forced himself to breath in and out in an attempt to calm himself down. He looked to Ellen imploringly. "Look, I just need some help from Ash."

Ellen frowned, but when she realized she wasn't going to get anything more out of him, she nodded her acceptance. She excused herself momentarily to fetch the ex-MIT student and busied herself with cleaning the bar after she had returned with him; although Sam could tell she was still listening to his and Ash's conversation.

"You want me to do what now?" The man drawled.

"Make a nationwide search. Anyone who had a nursery fire the night of their six month birthday." Sam tried to ignore the feeling he was being watched. He had chosen the farthest corner of the bar and was talking as quietly as he could, but he still felt like someone unwanted was listening. "I need to find other people, other psychics, like me."

Ellen suddenly appeared opposite them. "I thought not all of them fit the pattern. Not all of them had house fires as you did."

"No," Sam agreed. "But a few of us did, and that will have to be enough."

~•~

Ash emerged from his back room with a torn slip of paper in his grip. He dropped onto the bar stool next to Sam and picked up his half-drunken beer. Ash waited dramatically, flourishing his paper for attention. He sighed contentedly after a big gulp of Sam's beer. He took another swig, observing Sam from the corner of his eyes, and didn't set the glass down until Ellen scoldingly said, "just tell us what you got, Ash."

"Three folks fit the profile nationwide. Born in '90, mother died in a nursery fire, the whole shebang."

"Three?" Sam scoffed in disbelief. "That's it?"

Ash looked at Sam with offense, like he couldn't believe Sam would dare question his findings. He flicked his sheet of paper and held it at arm's length, reading aloud: "Sam Winchester from Lawrence, Kansas, Max Miller from Saginaw, Michigan, Andrew Gallagher from Guthrie, Oklahoma. Three names," the genius concluded proudly, although he still remained as emotionless as ever.

Sam deflated, though he tried not to show it, his eyes drifting to his hands resting on the bar counter. He'd been so sure there would have been more names, more children whose lives were ruined by the yellow-Eyed Demon. Ellen sighed and came around to the other side to stroke Sam's back comfortingly. It was only when a patron came to pay for his drinks did she go back to work after a few minutes of consoling Sam. The man set down his myriad collection of newspapers to take out his wallet, and he left without gathering them again. A slight breeze of fresh air wafted through the joint, rustling and upsetting any assembling of papers. The man's tabloids skittered off the counter and fell at Sam's feet, and he picked them up, half-heartedly glancing at the top story.

It was some Californian post from a small town. That wasn't what interested Sam. What did, however, was the coverage of a recent homicide. The reporter detailed the brutal crime, quoting a Sheriff Stilinski about having a suspect in custody. The suspect, Christine Kyle, claimed to have blacked out while experiencing a fit of rage. During the unaccountable time, she supposedly barbarically murdered her husband on the night of their one year anniversary over a suspected affair. The police are planning on prosecuting the woman.

Sam read and re-read the article. It wasn't that he had been _looking_ for a job; he just needed a distraction. _Plus_, Sam figured, _burning the hell out of a ghoul might be somewhat therapeutic_. He tried not to think how much that thought sounded like something Dean would have said, or the fact that could be a sign of him turning to the Dark Side.

Ellen returned to the side in front of the counter and snagged the paper curiously. "You lookin' for a job, Sam?"

"No," Sam spun on his stool to better face the bartender. "Have you ever heard of Beacon Hills before?"

Ellen glanced at the paper silently. "Couple a times. There've been a few animal killings that have gained the attention of some hunters. No one' sphere now from what I know."

Sam nodded. He pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills for the beer—_which Ash drank most of_, Sam thought dryly—but Ellen snatched them up and shoved them back into his hand, smiling motherly and sadly as she walked him to the door.

"Where you gonna go, sweetie?"

"California."

Ellen stopped in the doorway and bit her lip. "Sam," she started. "I gotta call Dean. I gotta tell him where you're at."

Sam froze, his hands inches from the car door. He shifted his weight and tried to think of a way to explain his feelings without the reason for them. "Ellen, Dean...he tried to protect me, but the way he did it made everything worse. I need to sort things out for myself, and that mean's without Dean trying to shield me from—everything." Sam waved his arm broadly.

Ellen still didn't look convinced.

"Please, Ellen," Sam pleaded. "Don't tell Dean."

Sam wasn't sure she was going to answer. Actually, he was pretty sure she was going to turn right around, pick up the phone, and hold Sam at gun point until Dean got there, but slowly and reluctantly, she nodded.

* * *

**So tell me what you all think. As always comment**

**Also I will have Dean in the story, I'm using 2x10 as a guideline so he will be meeting up with the other characters **


	2. Chapter 2

Scott jumped in surprise as Stiles slammed a stack of papers the size of a college dissertation onto the library table, drawing the angry stares of those in the nearby vicinity. The two were alone for the first time in what seemed like months. Isaac, Allison, Lydia, or some other person was always with them, but for a short while, the two best friends had agreed to meet up at the local public library to do some research. Stiles had run off to print off half the Internet while Scott in the meantime had dozed off. He knew Stiles could handle the searching and printing; that had never been Scott's thing. He had, however, fallen asleep on top of an old journal filled with ghost stories and a collection of monster allegories. Luckily the normal for him had become ghost stories and supernatural monsters so there had been no such beasts in his dreams. No those were reserved for the recurring nightmare of losing control of his alpha abilities.

Scott grumbled softly, or what he thought was softly, and rubbed viciously at his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of the image of ravaged, bloody corpses, disemboweled by some kind of animal...Scott immediately searched his hands for any sign of the 'change' but instead of finding claws and fur, he managed to knock half of his books onto the ground.

The grouch of a librarian scowled at the boy and vehemently shushed him and his friend. Stiles leered back at the woman before sifting through his moil. Scott eyed the pile warily after picking it up from the carpet. He never understood how his friend managed to separate the Hollywood gimmicky myths and the true answers. But Scott also acknowledged the fact that his friend also tended to over indulge in the fact finding. Stiles slid over a few articles for Scott to read, but the alpha raised his eyes in question at the article's author.

"Ghostfacers?" Scott read incredulously. "Stiles, I thought we were trying to find real information on ghosts."

Stiles stared at him flatly. "Don't doubt me, Lassie. These guys were down in Texas investigating some haunted house. Had this whole website dedicated to it, even got the ghost on tape."

"Really? Show me."

Stiles scratched at the back of his head. "Well, it's a really crappy video...and it's fuzzy, but I swear it's the real deal," he finished hurriedly, seeing that his friend was growing more doubtful with every word. He went back to reading his own copy of the article and frowned at the corny texts. "Okay, maybe they overdue it and all, but the clip is just like what happened at the house. Their flashlights were flickering and their camera was all static-y." Stiles flicked through the few pages dedicated to 'Mordechai Murdoch's Hell House' and found a list of the first supposed victim as well as mention of two guys that 'aided us, the professionals.' It also mentioned that the two men, only described as a couple of jerk wannabes, caused the Ghostfacers to get arrested for interfering with an active investigation.

"Like ours," Scott realized.

"Exactly."

The librarian sauntered over and placed both hands on the table menacingly. She smiled sickeningly, causing Stiles and Scott exchanged glances.

"Can we help you—Jill?" Stiles read off her name tag with a fake, lopsided grin.

"Yes," she bit out sweetly. "I was wondering if you boys would like a dictionary?"

Stiles stared open mouthed curiously. "No, why?"

"A library is a quiet place, and I'm not sure you boys understand the meaning of 'quiet.'" To prove her point she jabbed her bony finger at the sign that posted in big black letters, 'Quiet, Please.' Scott bit the inside of his cheek and gathered up all the papers and books he and Stiles had collected, shoving them none too kindly into his school bag. He jerked his head at Stiles and apologetically excused themselves from the library. The librarian's scowl followed them even through the glass doors and into the courtyard. As soon as they exited the building, Scott had to force Stiles to keep moving as he had stopped to make obscene gestures at the public building. For the second time in minutes, Scott smiled apologetically at a mother who was glaring daggers and shielding her young child's eyes while entering the library.

"I think we should go see your dad," Scott admitted as they walked back to the jeep.

Stiles gave up his rude assault and jogged alongside his friend, glancing at him questioningly.

"We never saw the body. Maybe the—ghost—did something that might give us a clue of who died," Scott explained while Stiles started up his car, throwing an exasperated glare at the passenger seat. "The first time around, I mean."

"Because we haven't seen enough dead bodies for one lifetime," drawled Stiles, and he pulled out onto the road. Despite his oral reluctance, he drove in the direction of the police station. "Do you want me to be scarred for life? Cause that's where I'm headed."

Scott simply grinned in reply.

~•~

The station was relatively deserted. Almost all of the deputies on duty were either reading a magazine while they reclined at their posts, playing cards, or shooting crushed balls of paper into the waste basket. They even looked up excitedly, or expectantly as they would probably prefer, when the two boys strode in, but since Stile's presence was nothing new and since Scott was almost as common as the sheriff's kid in recent times, they sighed in disappointment. Everyone fell silent at the awkwardly despondent entrance, but as Stiles generally thrived in awkward situations, he waved his greetings to anyone who made eye contact and wove his way down the hall to where the stairs were. The boys were, however, intercepted before they could get past the vending machines.

The sheriff, arms crossed and an unsurprised expression plastered on his face, blocked their path to the city morgue. "Boys," he greeted dryly. "What're you doing here?"

Stiles predictably took the lead, leaning against the wall framing the vending machines. "Dad! What are you doing here?"

"I work here."

Stiles nodded and bit his lip. "Yes. And I came to say hi." At the sheriff's unchanging expression, he added defensively, "can't a son just visit his father's work without being questioned?"

"No."

"Ah," the younger Stilinski's face fell. He glanced behind to Scott and then nodded to himself. He met his father's gaze, squinting. "We need to see the body."

Sheriff Stilinski was already shaking his head. "You boys have been researching this for two days, with no luck. Do you want to tell me why you aren't just asking the Argents for help?" He pressed the two boys the sheriff's office where they could talk about ghosts, zombies, or whatever and not locked in a rubber room for observation. For extra measure, he dropped the shades.

"Because they're _werewolf_ hunters. Not ghost hunters, which we aren't even sure exist," Stiles stated like it was obvious. "Plus they're not exactly Scott's biggest fans, especially now he and Allison are broken up."

"Stiles!" objected Scott.

"What? It's true!" Stiles waved away his previous thought process. "Anyways, that's not important. What is, though, is the very dead man whose corpse is being held in the basement at thirty six degrees Fahrenheit."

After a few minutes of a moral dilemma—as according to the sheriff, the body is not something seventeen year olds should see—and a literally physical problem of allowing two minors to prod at a corpse in the city moratorium, in the middle of an investigation no less, the sheriff finally acquiesced. He led away the attendants in the basement and gave the boys five fingers with a meaningful glare. Immediately, Scott and Stiles rushed to the metal wall and slid out the metal slab supporting their dead guy. Scott swallowed roughly; no matter how many times he had seen and _smelt _a decomposing corpse, he would never get used to the wrenching feeling every time the putrid, copper taste invaded his overly sensitive nostrils. Stiles seemed to be experiencing the same gut reaction, although he was moving past it and drawing back the white sheet. His hand was shaking, but Scott couldn't tell if it was from the massive dose of Adderall his friend had downed over the past few days or from disgust at vetting yet another dead person.

Whatever thoughts Scott was previously mulling over were lost as soon as he saw the damage the petite woman had done. Her husband's neck was nearly severed from his body—a poor job too as the cut was jagged and brutally savage—and there were many incisions that hadn't come from the "y" shaped autopsy scar. Probably the most scarring part were the words, which were forever burned into Scott's mind. Words describing how unfaithful her husband had been were _carved_ into his chest and arms like bloody tattoos, and it looked like Christine Kyle had plunged her hands in and tore the man's heart right out of his rib cage. As if that hadn't been enough, Robert Kyle's ring finger was missing.

Stiles was the first to retch. He stumbled away, coughing, and Scott wasn't far behind. Neither boy actually vomited; however, it was still unpleasant. Finally mastering their involuntary impulses, they slowly moved back to the side of the mutilated corpse.

"There is no way _that_ woman could do this much damage," gagged Stiles.

Scott had to agree. The man was like a navy seal, not to mention the shattered rib cage the assailant had ripped through. Scott could barely imagine doing that himself, although he'd never even think of trying. Even on a full moon. He couldn't even picture Isaac or Derek—well maybe Derek when he's pissed off—ripping through someone's chest because they believed they had betrayed them. Although, Scott had to admit he'd noticed a feeling of strength since he learned of the "True Alpha" situation. It was more of a mental capability, he pondered.

"What did you say the cause of death was again?" Scott asked.

His friend paused whatever process he had been in the middle of, some sort of categorizing the injuries and such, to gape at his friend in such a way that read, 'did you really just ask that?' His eyes flicked to the gaping hole in the victim's chest and he returned obviously, "a heart attack."

At that moment, the morgue doors swung open, and the sheriff rambled inside. He caught sight of the two glaring at each other. He ignored the angry stares and waved at the door behind him. "Time's up."

"What? No, we need a few more minutes."

"How will five more minutes help you find out what killed him, 'cause I've got news for you: the person who did that," the sheriff couldn't even look at the damage, just vaguely pointing to the white sheet, "is in county at the moment awaiting arraignment."

Stiles clenched his jaw and bit back his smart-ass reply, as Scott knew he had one. Stiles, at this point, was playing off instinct, just like the rest of them. No one knew how to handle a ghost, and in reality, none of them even knew ghosts were real until four days ago when one had literally thrown them out of a house.

"Maybe if we talked to Christi—"

"Hell no, Stiles," snapped the Sheriff before his son could even finish his sentence. He glanced behind him to make sure no one had heard and made an effort to lower his voice. "I wasn't even sure if I should let you look at this, but talking with a suspect before she is even indicted yet? Out of the question."

"But, Dad—"

"No, Stiles." The sheriff stated un-movingly and adamantly. "I am the father and sheriff. I am supposed to be figuring out the answers, protecting you, not you protecting me."

Scott understood the looks that washed over both his friend and his friend's father's face. Understanding of every situation since the nemeton and the past situations the sheriff had not been able to solve sue to a lack of information ran down the older man's visage, and Stiles's guilt was clear. His father was so far out of his element with the Supernatural, and he still had to turn to his son for help.

~•~

The baring horn was what drove the impala to swerve back to the right. Dean was finding it impossible to focus on the pavement burning in the Nevada sun. It had been four days and three nights since his baby brother had ditched him, snuck out after saying he wouldn't, hitched a ride, and refused to make any communication with him. Dean had made so many attempts to call Sam, called in all his favors—Dean wouldn't actually consider them favors, more like pulling rank in whatever sheriff's department or police station he passed through—and still there was no sighting of Sammy.

Dean figured he must have ditched his phone in some sort of tunnel; it was the only explanation as to why not even the phone companies could find the GPS signal. He hoped Sam hadn't gone so far and completely isolated himself, but the look of betrayal and anger etched in Dean's memory was equally as convincing.

Not even the blaring of Highway to Hell could lift Dean's spirits. A mile marker of seventy-two flashed past the impala windows, the nearest town in whatever back water alley of Nevada he was currently driving through. Ever since Dean had left Oregon, He had been driving through the most random towns, highways, and directions in the hopes of finding his baby brother. He had even called Bobby and Ellen, although only the former had answered. Sadly, he wouldn't answer any questions until he learned why Dean had lost track of Sam and what was going on between the two of them.

Dean exhaled despondently and floored the gas pedal. He wasn't in the mood to wait until he reached the next town.

~•~

Beacon Hills had the appearance of a classic Californian town, as well as many common horror-movie characteristics, Sam concluded upon first glance of the small town. The county had an abundance of dark woods surrounding many dark alleyways, abandoned mansions and factories, and the amount of coincidences that occurred in such a small area was implausible. However, besides the mass amount of strange and unexplainable deaths, Beacon Hills had the draw of an apple pie life, somewhere Sam had thought of moving to with Jess. The center of town was the same as anywhere else: a few shops and cafes, a sheriff's station, a school farther down the main street, and many neighborhoods and cul-de-sacs that encircled everything but the woods. The Cedar Tree cul-de-sac was what held Sam's attention.

Four days had passed since Christine Kyle had lost control and brutally murdered her husband. Under the alias of _Strange Occurrence Tribunal _writer Dave Hope, he had learned almost everything about the woman and the press-released facts about the killing. Twenty-nine year old art major, Christine Beauchene married technician Robert Kyle, who was born and raised in Beacon Hills. The two married last year and nothing indicated unhappiness of any kind in their lives. Christine Kyle had never had any interaction with the law except for some parking tickets—that is until she had plunged her hands deep into her husband's chest.

Parking in front of the house, Sam evaluated the situation. He could easily go through the proper channels by flashing his FBI badge that was stored in the glove box, but that would raise more questions of why a lone FBI agent was looking into a small town murder. No, Sam decided. He pocketed his lock-pick set and sidled to the side door. As he had hoped, the police had either been too busy to relock the house, or they just hadn't cared since the people who owned the place were either dead or in jail. The side door immediately entered the kitchen, the room openly connecting to the dining room. Like most of the town, the rooms were rather vintage and typical. The tile floor was marked by dirty work boots, most of the kitchen knives had been confiscated, and there was a massive stain of crimson brown in the carpet, but nevertheless the room looked like it had been pulled from a homemaker's magazine. The hallways were the same, paintings of the sea and the woods at twilight hanging up on the walls alongside pictures of a cheery couple.

Sam tried to ignore the prickling sensation in his stomach as he thought of the crime scene photos he had seen after hacking the autopsy report. At one point he passed a group photo of the Kyles and another couple, the man looking similar to the victim. _The brother_, he guessed, _and his girlfriend_.

According to the EMF indicator, everything in the house was _natural_. The only bigger spike in the signal Sam received was as he roamed the device around the blood stain, and he had already highly suspected that would be the case. Nevertheless, he felt a slight satisfaction at being right as he whispered, "definitely a spirit." Occasionally there would be a spritz of whirring and flashing lights, but the entire first floor and second floor was clean, much to Sam's surprise and dismay.

At one point in time Sam thought he saw something but decided it was a trick of the light and a lack of sleep. He continued to stare, however, at the second floor landing which had caught the sun's rays at just the right angle, highlighting the dust that floated in the air. Nothing was there, but Sam _felt_ like there had been. Shaking his head, Sam headed for the front door and absentmindedly rubbed at his temples. He could sneak back to his rusty, old pickup truck—he had ditched the station wagon at some town between the Roadhouse and Northern California, the same place he had ditched his phone—from the place he had come in from, but Sam couldn't convince himself to give a damn. He was just so tired, and outmaneuvering someone who wasn't there was too much for him to consider.

Sam stopped just before the front door, his hand hovering inches from the flaking handle, as his pocket vibrated incessantly. On the screen of his new burner flashed his brother's name. His brother whom he couldn't seem to completely leave. When Sam had dropped his phone, he had kept the SIM card and therefore his contacts and number without the GPS tracker. Although Sam admitted he missed Dean, he was angrier. He stared at the flashing name until the words missed call rested by the name, and new voicemail hovered underneath. Immediately he deleted the message sans listening to it and marched deliberately back to his stolen car. Sam looked back up, about to hop into his car, but was greeted with the scene of an old jeep, in lieu of the empty street he had expected.

In front of said jeep stood two adolescents. Both were staring fixedly on Sam, and he responded comically in the same fashion. The first boy, Sam assumed he was about seventeen or eighteen years old, was a classic gangly teen, but he had this look about him, a look that said his mind was a thousand miles ahead of everyone around him. When he caught sight of Sam coming from the victim's house, his eyes narrowed and he knocked his friend insistently on the shoulder. The friend, who also looked about eighteen, pushed the boy's hand away. Apart from the shaggy hair and well-toned muscles, he seemed different than any other teen his age, something ominous and powerful, as much as he tried to hide it. Sam sighed as the two adolescents made a beeline for his old truck, and he prepared himself for his cover story.

"Hey!" the first boy called brusquely.

"Can I help you, boys?" Sam asked politely, but also tersely.

"Yeah, what were you doing in there? Don't you know what happened in there? It's a crime scene."

Sam glanced back at the house then to the boys. They were too suspicious Sam concluded, his own suspicions growing. He forced himself to calm down. He was being paranoid; these two were just average, naïve teenagers. "It's okay," he said, making pacifying gestures. "I work for the FBI." Sam nodded in question and slowly opened his car door to retrieve his forged badge. "See?"

Both boys observed the I.D. intently, the second boy leaning in more closely than the first. They didn't appear too happy about it, but they conceded he was actually a fed and backed off, if only minutely compared to before.

The first boy smirked, his gaze falling on Sam's less than official clothes and crappy car. "Nice ride, fed."

Sam tried to return the grin. "I'm on vacation."

"Then why are you breaking and entering into a crime scene…" the shaggy haired one asked. He narrowed his eyes at the agent. "…Agent Robert Plant?"

"Curiosity. I read about the murder, just thought I'd take a look because some of the elements match an old cold case I worked on."

It was like watching a lightbulb. The two boys froze simultaneously then snapped shut their mouths in an attempt of indifference. Sam grinned and crossed his arms and leaned against the driver door. "And what about you? What are you two skulking around a crime scene?"

"Me?" the first boy pointed to himself then to his friend. "Nothing. I mean we're not. Skulking. I'd say more of lurking. Maybe waiting and watching."

His friend's leg snaked out, catching him in the calf. "Stiles," his friend hissed. He glared a moment longer before addressing Agent Plant. "We were just curious. You know: small town, word travels fast."

"And we were bored."

"Well," Sam sighed, nodding to the jeep across the street. "Why don't you find a better way to satisfy your curiosity."

~•~

Stiles slammed his door shut, frustrated and practically growling. Scott looked at him questioningly. He didn't even have to ask before his best friend exploded and took his annoyance out on his beloved car. "Why can't people just be who they say they are?!" he griped. "I guess that question falls right alongside 'why can't someone in this town just get murdered'?"

"You noticed he's an imposter then?"

Stiles threw a cheeky grin at the passenger side. "He may want to invest in a better cover name."

"What?"

"Robert Plant? One of the guitarist for Led Zeppelin?" Stiles hummed a quick tune of what Scott figured was a song from Led Zeppelin, but the song cut off as soon as it started. He glanced at the werewolf in his passenger seat almost as confused as the time when Scott had come up with the answer to a math problem. "How'd _you_ know he was a fake?"

"His badge number. My dad taught me how to check a fake, and his was well made, but wrong."

Stiles hummed in approval and seemed impressed, if not because his friend could identify a forgery, because he remembered something useful that his father had taught him. He observed the false agent clambering into his car easily despite his enormous, and intimidating height. The truck's engine sputtered to life but remained in the driveway. "You get any werewolf-y scent of this guy? My guess is another psychopathic, sacrificing lunatic."

Scott shook his head. "No, nothing. He did smell a little off though. And it seemed familiar."

"Familiar how?"

"Like I've smelt it before."

"Like when we've been running for our lives before, or in the supermarket before?" When Scott merely shrugged, Stiles harrumphed and whined, "come on, Scott. I'm always the one getting chased and I want to be ahead of it this time." Stiles heaved a sigh and turned on the car. "Whatever _it_ is."

Scott pulled out his phone and immediately hit the green call button. "Isaac," he said after a few rings. He pointed at the truck that was just pulling out onto the street. "Follow him—no, Stiles follow him, not you—Isaac, I need you to get everyone and meet me somewhere…I don't know yet…I'll text you the address…Yeah, just bring Lydia."

Stiles's head snapped to the right at mention of the banshee, although he also managed to swerve the jeep dangerously to the left. He was forced to focus back on the road and the red truck a few cars ahead.

~•~

"And you just _suspect_ he's involved. Ignoring the fact he only just came to Beacon Hills," puffed Lydia intelligently.

"We don't know he just got here," defended Stiles, ducking back behind the building the group of five adolescents was using as a barricade. "He is impersonating a federal officer."

"So report him," she drawled pointedly. Lydia slid out her hand mirror and flicked some strawberry curls from her face and puckered her lips. "Your father _is_ the sheriff."

Allison couldn't help but agree with Lydia's logic. To say she was weary of the new turn of events was an understatement. From the moment Scott and Stiles revealed they were investigating a _ghost haunting_, Allison had felt even more enervated. She wanted to tell her father, convinced he'd know what to do, but Scott and Stiles had insisted she didn't. She agreed with the exception that if things escalated then she could tell Chris Argent everything without hesitation.

After being retrieved by Isaac, already accompanied by Lydia, the three had met up with Scott, awkwardly, and Stiles behind some old café in town. The boys explained the strangely violent death, the incorporeal woman that had charged them, and their newly elected decision to re-vet the house, and finally they disclosed the faux-FBI agent encounter.

"Will you just do this?" Stiles returned snappishly and incredulously, like the tone he had been using when Lydia was reluctant to explore her 'banshee' abilities.

Lydia fixed him with her cool glare before pocketing the mirror and straightening her jacket. The four watched as she stepped back into the flow of pedestrians and walked straight up to the imposter, who was standing and reading the yellow pages.

"Hi," Lydia greeted bluntly.

Robert Plant started and stared at her, confused. "Hi," he replied.

"You're not from here?" She stated it as a question, but it wasn't actually one. She smiled charmingly and circled him.

"No," he admitted, still off-put.

Allison smiled. If Lydia was good at anything, it was at confusing people into bafflement. Her blunt intelligence was enough to shock anyone, but if she wanted to cause confusion, there was nothing to stop her. Lydia kneaded her temples before smiling stunningly and continuing.

"Lydia Martin." She offered her hand.

"...Rob Plant."

"Do you need help finding anything?"

Agent Plant shook his head with a small smile. "I'm only in town for a little bit. Just looking for a motel." He awkwardly shifted his attention back to the book in his hands. He laughed once, awkwardly, and cleared his throat. "I'm really okay on my own. No offence."

"M'kay. Welcome to Beacon Hills," Lydia smiled sweetly and spun on her heels. By the time she had returned to the group, she was using both palms to message her temples. She waved away Stiles's concern. "Nothing '_weird_.' He seems completely normal, if not a common criminal." She glanced back around the brick building. "If not really handsome," she added.

~•~

"Yeah," Dean snapped impatiently. He had been up for the past three nights and had chased through four towns in the past six hours, which was impressive and horrifying given the distance between the cities in Nevada. He was forcing down a second bag of chips, the only meal he had found at the awkward time he had checked into the broken down motel. Unlike his normal appetite, he could barely swallow the salty potato crisps

"Hello? Mr. Tanner?" The voice was timid and tired, like he was scared of angry patrons yelling over the phone all day. "This is Gregory from AT&amp;T. We've received a response from Samuel Tanner's GPS, would you still like the address?"

Dean dropped the bag of chips he had been eating and immediately turned the ignition. Balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear all the while speeding down the Silver Spring's main street, he shouted back, "Yes."

"It first came on in Redding, California, traveling steadily down route five, but now the signal has stopped in Sacremento. The phone hasn't moved for around an hour."

Dean snapped his phone shut without so much as a thank you. An hour, Sam had been in Sacremento, California, for an hour, and the phone company has only just called him? He may be in Nevada, but with the impala full on gas and Dean's driving skills, he figured he could be there within an hour and a half.

And true to his thought, Dean arrived in the center of the city, receiving the exact location from the same irked and fiddly man from a few hours before. However, when he reached the park, he did not see his overly tall brother. Instead the only man in view was a plump guy sitting on a bench. Even if Sam had been hunching over, this guy was the complete opposite and could never pass for his baby brother. The imposter was balding, a Homer Simpson styled haircut, and he was stuffing his face with a McDonald's big mac.

Dean wasn't feeling the same sense of humor as he normally would at the confusion, and he stalked over to the man and caught him by the collared shirt while the other hand snaked around the flip phone.

"Where'd you get this," Dean demanded.

The guy sputtered, grease coating his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about, but you want it, you can have it!"

Dean shook his head angrily. "I don't want it!" he snarled. "I just want to know where you got it?"

"It—it's mine. Look, buddy, I don't want any troub—"

"Then tell me the truth!" Dean raised a fist as if to hit the guy, and the trick seemed to work. Dean wasn't sure if he would actually have hit the man, but since the guy flinched uncontrollably and sank to the park pavement, it didn't really matter.

"I—I found it!" he cried. "I was on the subway and found the pre-paid phone. All I needed was a SIM card. I didn't know—oomph!" The man hit the ground hard enough to break the skin on his palms. He looked cowardly at Dean then took the gesture as a 'free-to-go' statement, and he scurried away.

Dean held the phone in his hand and stared down at it. "Well played, Sammy."

* * *

**So I actually had nearly finished this a few days ago, but my computer deleted over 1,000 words.**

**Anyways, hope you guys like it and as always COMMENT!**

**P.S. comments help speed along chapters**


	3. Chapter 3

Sam knew those two kids from the Kyle house were following him. They weren't exactly good at hiding their presence, especially if that presence was an old pale blue jeep that always stayed two cars behind Sam. They continued to follow him, too, conspicuously and annoyingly. He understood their curiosity at finding an FBI agent at a local murder scene, but what confused Sam was the young woman who came up to him in the middle of his search for a hotel. She seemed _too_ random and curious for Sam's liking, and after he had decided on a rundown motel, Sam made sure to cover his tracks from any teenage tail.

The motel he had chosen was just on the outskirts of Beacon Hills. It was unimportant and out of the way, but to someone who knew all the tricks to staying hidden, it was also very obvious. But Sam set up some demon wards and basic salt lines, and he went to work reading up on past press releases and histories without much worry to being found. The only person who knew where he was had promised not to disclose the name of the small town.

One article he had uncovered was disturbingly familiar to Sam: a house fire that killed an entire family except three. The only difference was that the Hale family had been a victim of a psychopathic woman who hired arsonists to ravage the family mansion. Kate Argent. The name sounded familiar, but Sam didn't know from where. From what he knew, he hadn't been in Beacon Hills before, and he was sure he hadn't seen the woman before as he scrutinized her smiling photo for clues as to where he might have known her from.

Most of the attacks Sam read about depicted a wild animal, a cougar that had wandered down from the reservations but to a hunter, the deaths sounded more like werewolves. Sure their hearts hadn't been eaten out, but the scenes had been _torn apart _bywhatever it was that attacked, not to mention the wolf hairs that were found on almost all of the bodies. That alone pointed to an alpha's strength but not as to why he was randomly killing people.

And a werewolf didn't explain the murderous teenager Matt Daehler who had somehow sliced up most of the deputies in the Sheriff's Station with allegedly only a gun. Sam had originally theorized the alpha was alone and trying to make a pack but the wild, animistic instincts were killing the potentials before they could turn, but now the slicing and dicing of the police and the reported paralyzing toxin trashed that idea. Because there couldn't be more than one supernatural pack in one small town, an even if there were, the recent incidents pointed to an occult, a witch or druid.

Out of the many articles, three names repeated more than not, along with a group of students that were never named due to being minors. The local Sheriff Stilinski, a federally acclaimed arms dealer Chris Argent, and a nurse Melissa McCall were the only sacrifices that were rescued from the lunatic Jennifer Blake. Another person that was connected to the school, where more than half the incidents occurred.

Sam grinned somewhat sardonically. _Everything, all of the incidents and deaths, revolve around the school. The school and the sheriff's station_. Taking only a moment to put on his monkey suit, he decided his best bet to finding out anything, especially about the current case and all of the past ones—which he wanted to clarify out of curiosity. Sam was halfway down East street when every car on the road parted like the Red Sea. Two blue squad cars flew down the center of the two lanes, their lights and sirens blaring hell.

Sam didn't need a headache and vision to know something was wrong, he just hoped it was the right kind of wrong, one not involving a murderous ghost. The drive was much longer than Sam had anticipated and led to a small house on the other side of town, a couple feet from the edge of the woods. Many police cars and the sheriff's SUV were parked all over the lawn, as well as, Sam noted, a familiar looking jeep. Some officers were in the process of tying up the yellow police line while a group of paramedics wheeled out a gurney, but instead of a dying patient, there was a black bag. Immediately behind the coroners, a man was being led forcefully to a squad car, and he was beyond hysterics. Glossy tears shadowed his eyes in rivets and sobs racked his body so harshly he couldn't stand or walk straight, leaning most of his weight on the two officers in charge of delivering him to the station. The scene might have been sympathetic, but the amount of red that stained his clothes and skin was anything but.

The uniforms had to push more and more as they neared their car, and the assailant began to lament louder and louder, claiming he hadn't meant to and it wasn't him.

"Something was controlling me! I'd never harm her! Maddie!" He screamed until he was muffled by the car door and the whoop of the sirens.

Sitting on the step into the ambulance was a girl wrapped in a grey shock-blanket, glaring at the men standing before her with pads of paper. Sam couldn't hear what was being said, but Sam assumed she was the one to have walked in and find the woman covered in blood and the most likely mutilated body. A few feet away from the debriefing, one boy was being manhandled away from the scene, towards a group of four other teenagers. Sam couldn't help but smile and sigh at the same time. He should have guessed the girl was with the two boys he had met earlier. He could only assume the other girl, a tall brunette, and a third boy with curly dirty blonde hair were part of the meddlesome club.

The officer, who was handling the lanky teenager out of the house and off the lawn, held an air of authority as well as a badge identifying him as the sheriff. He was in the middle of his admonishing tirade of prying into a crime scene when Sam walked up to him. Sam nodded a greeting to the group of adolescents before offering his I.D. to the officer.

The sheriff took one look at Sam's suit and sighed, before taking the badge to confirm his suspicions. "Let, me guess. FBI?"

Sam nodded solemnly, and offered his badge. "Yes, sir. I was just passing through the neighborhood when I saw the commotion. You mind if I speak with you?" Sam tried to avoid the suspicious, incredulous glances he was receiving from the group to his right and focused on the Sheriff's slight incline of the head. The two wandered away from the kids, not before the sheriff scoldingly ordered "stay!"

"What happened here?"

"A homicide."

"You have a suspect in custody?"

The sheriff nodded. He held out an arm to Sam, stopping their passage to the new crime scene. "Can I ask what a special agent is doing investigating a small town murder?"

Sam bit his lip and smiled charmingly and tactfully, and snake-like. "Beacon Hills has a higher mortality rate than the northern Californian towns put together. The bureau just wants to make sure there isn't anything brewing that we need to be concerned with. You understand, don't you sheriff, given the recent circumstance with Jennifer Blake? She was in the position to teach anything to the students before she was ousted."

Every deputy in the vicinity scowled and openly shared their disgust with the fed, although the Sheriff appeared to be trying to seem more diplomatic. Sam felt somewhat bad about the intrusion and blatant disrespect, but if he was going to save these people from a malevolent spirit, he was going to have to ignore such feelings.

"Yes," the sheriff ground out before putting on a moderately pleasant smile, which was more of a grimace, "there have been unfortunate happenstances, but I can assure you there is no reason for the FBI to get involved."

Sam exhaled slowly. He knew local law enforcement hated when the feds got involved, but something felt stronger than the normal type of resistance. "And they won't," Sam promised diplomatically. "I just need to confirm this isn't another Jennifer Blake."

Finally, the sheriff nodded less reluctantly. "At Eleven Seventeen this morning, we received a call from Lydia Martin," at this point, he indicated the strawberry blonde who was now standing amongst her friends, "called Nine-One-One about discovering Noah Mason with his hands inside Maddison Mason's chest. Dispatch arrived and arrested the man before other officers set up a perimeter. So far that's all we have."

Sam shrugged. "Two violent murders within five days. That's not suspicious to you?"

"Maybe it's cabin fever," a voice piped up at Sam's shoulder. Sam jumped and found the teen from earlier smiling proudly, a few steps behind him was the ever present group of adolescents.

"Stiles," the sheriff sighed, although he seemed to have surrendered. "I told you to wait on the other side of the tape."

"I know. We're just curious why the FBI's here."

Sam couldn't believe how suspicious this entire town was. It seemed like every person here believed in every government conspiracy, or that the feds were trying to run a police state by how they were acting. "Does that explain why you were going to break into the last crime scene?" Sam wasn't positive that was the truth, but taking a stab that they didn't live on that street proved fruitful. The sheriff's expression was blatantly stormy as he turned on the kids. However, the confrontation was considerably different than what Sam was expecting.

"Really?" was the sheriff's exasperated response.

Stiles grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head.

"Go home, Stiles. Scott, Isaac, don't you have lacrosse practice or something?" All three boys' eyes shifted to the ground and all three stepped back from the law enforcement officers. "Lydia, you're free to go. Allison…" the sheriff seemed out of suggestions and just waved them all away with tired flicks of his hand. After all five had piled into the pale blue jeep, Sam faced the sheriff.

"Does that kind of thing happen often?"

"Too often," came the lethargic response.

~•~

"I thought you told your dad about that guy," demanded Allison. She dropped her bag by the sofa, intending to drop down herself, but she shifted at the last moment to sit in a recliner chair instead of sharing the couch with Scott.

Stiles scowled and took Allison's abandoned spot and kicked his feet up onto the McCall's coffee table. "I meant to. It just…never came up."

Lydia raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "It never came up?"

"…No?" Stiles shifted uncomfortably. "Okay, maybe I held off because we know nothing about this guy except that he likes Led Zeppelin and is really good at forging federal documents."

Scott glanced around his small pack, which he had only started calling them that because Stiles had said it enough it had caught on. Most of them were simply mildly frustrated another supernatural occurrence was screwing up their otherwise normal high school lives. There was a simple answer to this, and he knew more than three quarters of them would object to it. And still, he offered it up as a suggestion. "I think we should tell Derek."

Predictably, all of the responses were outraged 'What's and 'No's. Stiles's was the loudest as every time he and Derek were in a relatively stressful situation the former always seemed to get hurt. Stiles, although he reluctantly admitted that Derek had knowledge in the area, was still loath to bring the ex-alpha in on their ghost problem.

"He may know something about this sort of thing," Scott defended, "maybe even about the FBI guy."

"Or we may be bringing him for no reason. Remember he and Peter weren't exactly happy about your arrangement with Deucalion. Not that any of us were, but still."

Scott threw a silencing glare at Stiles, who took the look head on unflinchingly.

"I agree with Stiles," Isaac added quietly. Scott wondered if he still hadn't forgiven Derek for throwing him out even if it was to protect him.

"Can we talk about what the imposter was doing at _both_ crime scenes?" Lydia prompted. For someone who had discovered a woman murdering her husband an hour earlier, she was doing fairly well. She was still paler than usual, but she wasn't shaking or throwing up in shock. "And how he also thinks the murders are connected?"

"That's weird," Allison agreed. "I could understand why he thought two murders within five days was suspicious but not in the way he was implying. Maybe he knows it's something to do with a ghost? Another hunter?"

"What's the probability of that, though?" Stiles shook his head then thought better of it. "Actually with our luck, he's probably the king of hell and is coming to kill the ghost for being obvious."

"How does that work if the ghost is already dead," began Isaac, but Scott intervened before the debate escalated:

"I think," he began loudly then returned to his normal pitch, "there's reason to check him out. Lydia, you know where he's staying?"

She glared at the alpha. She looked like she wanted to say something snappy and obnoxious but she refrained and settled on a simple 'no.'

"Fine. We'll have to find out by scent. Isaac, you up for it?"

~•~

Normal teenage drama was how Scott and Stiles found themselves, once again, on their own together. Since Allison was still reluctant to be alone with Scott for any period of time and Lydia still practically ignored Stiles, the groups were decided on what would be the least awkward moments of their lives. Isaac went off with Lydia and Allison to check out all the hotels on one side of town while Scott and Stiles drove around looking for a motel that a federal imposter would stay at. To say the least, they were unsuccessful until they had searched every hotel until falling upon the place that charged by the hour.

"He wouldn't…" Stiles stared, horrified, at the fat, greasy man who grinned at the two boys. "You'd think a conman could afford better places to stay."

The toothless man sucked at his gums in a disgustingly noisy way and scrutinized the two teenagers up and down before deciding they weren't worth his time and attention and focusing back on his magazine on the counter.

Scott held his breath momentarily for a reprieve from the smell of miscellaneous bodily fluids and approached the front desk. "We were wondering if someone has checked in recently." He didn't receive any sort of recognition that he was speaking but continued nonetheless. "He's huge. Height-wise, I mean. Hair falling in his face, brunette. May be carrying around a feder—"

Stiles lightly shoved his friend to the side with a warning glance. He tapped the desk incessantly until he got an annoyed glare from the manager. Stiles smirked and slapped a five dollar bill on the counter. "We're looking for a buddy. May be staying here?"

The manager didn't show any indication he understood English.

Stiles's eye twitched and he groaned, slapping down a twenty, and the first movement of life appeared on the guy's face.

"Yeah, he checked in." His breath reeked of rancid tobacco and beer.

"Which room?"

The manager's fat palm landed softly on top of Stile's hand and slimily slid down until it dislodged the bills, which he pocketed before grinning. "Don't remember."

Stiles stared openmouthed. He grabbed Scott and turned him around to talk quietly. "Dude, give me a twenty."

"What?" Scott exclaimed loudly.

"Come on! You've got a job and a motorbike. I've got a crappy jeep that needs a lot of TLC." Stiles slapped Scott upside the back and reached for his friend's wallet. "I already gave that sleaze-ball twenty-five, and we don't know when the fed's goanna be back."

Scott actually growled as he dug out a wad of cash from his jacket pocket. "This better be worth it," he grumbled. Stiles grinned and dropped all of the money he had collected before the drooling manager.

"And I want a key."

~•~

Unfortunately, there were no pictures of victims, no bloody occult symbols, and no werewolf teeth on string. It was just a simple one bed motel room with a medium bag full of stale clothes, like the guy hadn't had time to go to the local dry cleaners.

In fact, the only really weird thing was the line of white powder drawn in front of every window and the door. Stiles took care to step over the line to riffle through the drawers, but Scott busied himself with the substance lining the windows. He dragged a finger through the line and rubbed it between his hands, sniffing it. "Salt," he muttered confusedly.

"Don't touch anything," Stiles ordered as an afterthought and without turning around. Scott glanced down at the salt painting his hands and brushed them off slightly, moving on to stand behind his friend. Stiles had been digging inside the duffel bag when he had found something. There were two photos: one old, worn photo of a family and a newer photo of a guy and a girl. In the first photo were two young kids, a toddler and a baby, in the arms of an overjoyed couple. They were sitting on a classic old car, and they were happy. In the second photo there was their imposter with his arms around a bubbly young woman with long blonde hair.

"Who do you think they are?"

Stiles shrugged. "People with murder fetishes?"

"I'm serious. You're always the one talking about people showing up with hidden agendas."

Stiles shifted through the bed sheets for anymore hidden cachets, but there was nothing to be found. "Yeah," he admitted, "but I'm not a mind reader." He was on all fours then, crawling across the carpet floor with his head skimming the little furs.

Scott held back his instinct to retch at the thought of what had touched that floor. "Stiles," he groaned, yanking his best friend off the floor. "There's nothing here."

"But we still haven't found out anything about the guy." He waved a hand at the wall of salt. "Besides the fact he likes his sodium, but I doubt threatening him with pepper will do anything."

"Stiles, we should go…" Scott froze.

"We could offer him popcorn…you know I think I've read a myth about a leprechaun needing to count every grain of salt—"

"Stiles. We need to go." Scott listened more closely, but his friend was rambling on persistently.

"—if someone spills it before them—"

"Like, now!" Scott seized his friend's arm and fumbled to the door despite Stiles's protests. Scott hadn't realized how much time had passed since they had bribed the manager until he had heard the rumbling of an old, ford pickup truck pulling into the parking lot. Luckily, Stiles had had the forethought to park around the corner so if _Agent Plant_ did come back before they were gone, he wouldn't see the ever-obvious jeep.

Unfortunately, all of the rooms were supplied with one door, all facing into the parking lot. They glanced out, and, not seeing the imposter immediately, threw themselves out of the motel room and off the motel property without looking back.

~•~

Sam was aware someone had been in his room before he knew how. He knew it hadn't been the maid because he had left the 'Do Not Disturb' sign hanging from the doorknob, and the manager had seemed too lazy to really go nosing through his guests' rooms. But he had an idea of who it might have been.

Sam looked over the room, finding little things out of place and his salt line with drags in it when there hadn't been any before. Sam sighed. He was really starting to get annoyed with the teenagers and locals of this town. And to add to his annoyance, Dean had called him so many times the sheriff had glanced at him with expectancy and had asked if he was going to answer it.

The murder had been almost exactly like the first one, only the roles reversed with the husband ripping out his wife's heart, but he had spared his wife the pain of carving into her skin before de-coring her. Sam didn't understand how this had happened. At first he had thought the ghost was attached to the house, but there had been no other person who had lived in the Kyles' house before and certainly not a gruesome murder. The Masons hadn't known Christine or Robert, and yet Noah had killed his "cheating" wife in the same manner as Christine, both claiming to have had no control over their actions.

Sam lay down on his bed and rested the clock on top of his stomach. As far as Sam could make out, the only thing he could do was to go back to the Mason house before the ghost is able to move, however it was managing to do that. And he could only do that once the sun went down and the police moved on. Sunset was scheduled to be around six o'clock, and so Sam had a few hours to kill. He set back the clock on the dresser and shut his eyes.

~•~

It was close to the second hour of waiting for absolute silence when Sam finally trusted the quiet enough for him to leave the safety of his car. Being close to eleven, the police had no reason to really watch over the house and finally left, after crossing back a few times to make sure no juvenile delinquents were trying to sneak a peek at the bloody crime scene.

Sam, still taking precautions, unlocked the side door and stepped in, the EMF indicator already replacing the lock picks. He had a faultless plan, with the only hitch being discovering the remains he had to burn. But at the moment, he just needed to see what the ghost looked like, if it was a ghost, and if it was attached to a certain item instead of her physical vestiges. That was the only explanation Sam could think of that would allow a spirit to shift between locations.

He flitted through possible non-ghost related ghouls as he scanned each item in the Masons' house, but there was nothing in the family room or kitchen. Sam moved on to the living room, completing the circle on the ground level. The layout of the house was somewhat similar to the Kyles', probably due to the same architect, but it made searching the house easier. The door Sam had broken into connected with the pantry that led to the kitchen which then led to a family room and the bedroom at the far end of the hall. All three rooms circled around the stairs that held another bedroom, an office, and a bathroom. Sam had made a loop through each room, ending in the master bedroom.

The bed was slightly ruffled and clothes lay strewn in the closet. It seemed like the owners had just gone out for the night and had not been arrested for murdering the other. The EMF buzzed faintly as soon as it passed over the threshold. Given new hope in his theory of an accursed item, Sam set about the room, quickly roving over any paraphernalia that was in sight, but before he could scour the room entirely, a horrendously loud crash brought him to a halt.

Sam immediately drew his side arm and silently cursed himself for not bringing a sawed-off shotgun with him instead. But the specially-made iron bullets would have to do, decided Sam as he skillfully crept along the wall in the direction of the sound, keeping the hand-held at eye level. His heart beat rapidly despite him having done this hundreds of times before, and his untamed thoughts connected that to him being alone. Without Dean. He was past the living room by then, nearing the turn into the kitchen when a dark shadow stepped before him, a brilliantly white light swinging rapidly.

The shape yelped momentarily, Sam responding in kind as his gaze was bridged with a blinding flashlight. The sheriff's son, as Sam had learned from his earlier inquiries, threw himself away from the sudden obstruction and collided with two equally large shadows. They squawked as well and drew up their own flashlights. Sam brought back his gun but dropped it as a flash of blinding light enlightened Sam to the situation in front of him.

"What are you doing here?"

Stiles had recovered from his shock and jabbed a finger in Sam's direction. "I hope you mean 'what are _you_ doing here?' You're breaking and entering as much as us."

Sam holstered his gun and attempted to usher the three boys and a girl—Allison, he dimly remembered—back out the way they'd come. "You shouldn't be here," Sam began, but Scott stooped and held his ground stubbornly. He was strong, and as Sam wasn't going to physically fight him just to get the kid out of the house, Sam surrendered the attempt and settled for glaring at the teens.

"And you should be?" countered Allison. "We know you're not really FBI."

Clenching his jaw and dropping his head, Sam tried to think of something in response. He needed to get those teens out of the house before they got hurt. He didn't know what the pattern of the ghost was yet, and assuming it only possessed women and killed their spouses was likely to get someone killed if he was wrong. Looking down, it was then that Sam noticed how Allison kept her right arm behind her back and how a small, taught string protruded from behind her knees.

"Are you carrying a—crossbow?" Sam asked, genuinely curious.

Scott stepped in front of Allison protectively, an act she didn't find so endearing, but it was quickly copied by the other boy, Isaac. "Answer the question," Scott growled. "Why are you pretending to be FBI?"

Sam's pocket whirred dangerously, and it wasn't his phone. Something was woken up by the sudden upheaval in the house, and Sam doubted it was Casper. He picked up his previous attempts at shepherding the teenagers outside with a new fervor. "Fine! Yes," he admitted urgently. "But seriously, it's dangerous—"

"Dangerous for you maybe," Stiles prodded.

"If you don't get out of here, someone _is_ going to die—"

Suddenly all source of light shattered. The house was thrown in to blackness, except for an enigma's glow that emulated moonlight. The specter appeared at the end of the hall, flowing from the bedroom like she was floating in a stream, and she was terrifically beautiful. At that moment, Sam knew they had to run. The phantom's pearly white face had been emotionless, frozen, but after registering people intruding on her territory, atrocious features warped her face into something animalistic. Black veins encircled her sunken, marble eyes, cracked black lips that overflowed with oozing russet blood, curled fingers stretched with talon-like fingernails.

Sam did the thing that had been indoctrinated in him since age five: he drew, aimed, and fired. The bullet ripped through the air, hitting the ghost dead between her eyes, and she exploded into a shower of ash. Sam spun, dragging the four teens with him as he tore down the rest of the hall, to the kitchen. Even with his back turned, he could feel the apparition reforming, sending knives through the air every second.

"Out! Go, go, go!"

The house shook, the window panes shattered, and the doors nailed themselves shut; but as Scott was the first to arrive at the back door of the kitchen, he snatched hold of the handle and yanked the entire piece of timber from the frame.

~•~

The trees flashed past as they ran. It didn't even matter that they had outrun the danger by a mile, or that the only means of transport was in the other direction. All that mattered was Sam had seen the ghost and could probably figure out who it was and where her remains were. He also had an idea of how the ghost was moving locations, although not how the item itself had moved.

Suddenly, Sam was aware that he alone was still running. The only light he had was coming from the weak crescent moon, and the verdures and tree boughs absorbed almost all the pale, golden glare. He stopped, squinting behind him to get used to the forest without light. The Beacon Hills residents were still with him, only they had stopped short in an empty copse and each of them were standing defensively. Allison held her crossbow level to her shoulder, the silver head aimed straight for Sam's chest. Stiles was openly leering and distrustful and only Scott and Isaac seemed more hesitant to show their aggression.

Usually being the one to be holding the projectile weapon, Sam found it, to say the least, uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of the crossbow, and he wasn't completely sure the girl knew how to handle it, despite the clear confidence on her face.

"Who are you really?" she demanded. "And don't give us some BS story about being an FBI agent. We've already established you aren't," she injected before Sam could even think to fabricate a story.

Sam chose to remain silent.

"Fine," Stiles called, still a good, safe distance away. "Let's start with something simple. How about your name? Your _real_ name."

"Sam," Sam returned fleetly, grinning slightly when Stiles and Scott started back in surprise. He might as well try to get them to trust him. "You're Stiles, and you're Scott, and Isaac?" he asked, indicating each boy respectively. They nodded. Sam came back to Allison, who adjusted her grip on her bow under the scrutiny. "And you're Allison."

"What are you doing in Beacon Hills?"

Sam put out his hands, creeping towards the four teens, assuaging their nerves with calm advances. They, however, weren't to be placated. They were slow and cautious, not that Sam could blame them. Although they didn't seem that frightened, more like peculiarly annoyed that he'd imposed on their turf.

"I'm trying to figure out how to stop the murders." Sam was almost an amicable distance away from the four, and he was confident they didn't feel like he was going to attack. "And I think you know that I don't have anything to do with them. Or you'd have called the police already."

Stiles shrugged and edged closer, but Scott stayed back, only moving forward when his friend got too close. Sam thought he imagined it, but it looked like the kid was trying to sniff the air, getting a read on Sam.

"Or," Allison stepped before Sam, pushing him back a pace with a wave of her crossbow, "we wanted to see what you were doing before we called the authorities." She continued closer, taking back whatever progress Sam had made in the past minute. She grinned smugly and surprised Sam by dropping the arm holding the weapon. "Or because you're a hunter."

Sam hesitated only a second, mostly out of shock, before he nodded, although he understood it wasn't really a question. There was no point in denying it, and he was fairly sure normal teenagers didn't break into a haunted house with a crossbow and _not_ freak out after being attacked by a real ghost. Sam looked her right in the eyes, "And you are too? All of you?" Sam shook his head unbelievingly, "Ellen had said there weren't any other hunters here; that's why I took the job. If I'd known…"_ He'd have done what? And why did he want to avoid the other hunters, it's not like they knew what he was going to become when Sam didn't even know. _

"How'd you know to shoot the ghost?" Stile's query broke through his contemplation. "Shouldn't the bullet—I don't know—go _through_ it?"

Sam unthinkingly waved away the question with a simple utterance of iron. He had suddenly grown tired. The entire night had been a waste of time, and it had only caused more trouble than it had cured. Sure he knew what the ghost looked like, but now he had to deal with the endless questions from the teenagers.

"What about _you_," Sam interrupted any thought Stiles or Scott or Isaac was about to put to words. "What the hell were you doing breaking into a crime scene. Shouldn't more experienced hunters be dealing with this?"

"Maybe," Isaac took the liberty of ignoring and distracting from Sam's question. "You're not here for anything _but_ the ghost, are you?"

Sam's attention had flickered back to the woods, having thought he heard something. His eyes scoured the shadows for anything that had made the noise, but Sam found nothing. Returning to the conversation, he said, "You mean 'Am I here looking for the reason behind the animal attacks and sacrifices?'"

All four nodded.

Sam waited before answering. But his hesitance led to his notice of their surprise. Scott, who had been so focused on Sam's face and movement, was now alert to something behind him. A man formed from the shadows, but as the moonlight caught more of his features, black hair and cobalt eyes were soon the only human aspect. His nose was sharper, his teeth sharpening into canines, and he prowled closer, like an animal.

Sam's breath hitched. He recognized the evidence behind the characteristics, and he had already begun to reach for his gun when one of the teens behind him called out a name in a warning, and the werewolf was charging.

~•~

Dean was at his wit's end when his phone rang. He was half-tempted to let it ring. There was no reason to think it was Sam, no reason to think his baby brother had decided he overreacted and needed help. He was half-tempted but there was always a chance.

"Hello?" he answered gruffly.

"It's Ellen."

"Ellen," Dean breathed. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried. Things hadn't been very friendly last time he'd been at the Roadhouse, but if she was calling then maybe, "Hey, have you heard from Sam?"

There was a reluctant pause as she seemed to be thinking over what to save, but she tentatively replied, "I have…but he made me promise not to tell you where he is."

At that point, Dean could have growled. _Of course Sam would stoop so low as to make her promise, but Ellen knows what it's like to need to watch out for someone who could necessarily take care of himself._ He tried not to sound like he was begging, but there was no denying how desperate he was. "Come on, Ellen, please. Something bad could be going on here, and I swore I'd look after that kid."

"Now Dean, they say you can't protect your loved ones forever."

Dean had definitely lost hope at those words. He had grabbed his keys during the conversation, throwing whatever possession he had into a duffel bag within seconds. Now he stood, heaving, in the center of the room of the cheap motel he had forced himself to rest at for the night.

"Well, I say screw that," Ellen returned strongly. "What else is family for? He's in Beacons Hills, California."

Now he was out of the door, his duffel bag in one hand, his phone and keys in the other.

"Thanks."

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

**11:57 p.m.**

Sam crouched over his arm delicately, careful to keep a cushion of air concealing the thick plaster. _Stupid arm. Stupid zombie chick. Stupid kid who knocked him into a stupid rock._ The glare that was thrown towards Scott was unfairly placed, but at that moment, it was Sam's only defense. His gun lay forgotten somewhere in the dark, and the sting resonating up his arm from the broken bone in wrist was almost enough to bring tears to Sam's eyes.

When that creature had charged Sam, the Winchester had been prepared, granted with a gun loaded with the wrong kind of bullets, but he hadn't been afraid. Sam hadn't felt anything. Maybe that was the start of it all, what his father had been so worried about. What may cause Dean to kill his only living family. Sam's face felt a creeping numbness every time he thought of what Dean had said. _He said I might have to kill you, Sammy_. Every time his mind replayed those thoughts, it felt like his face was turning to stone, and the look of betrayal and hatred was chiseled permanently into his expressions.

But the werewolf had never reached Sam. The kid, Scott, had intervened before anything could happen and pushed Sam out of the way. Unfortunately, he was a lot stronger than he looked, and more so than he was aware of, and had thrown Sam farther than either had anticipated. Sam crashed down, instinctually bracing himself with arms outstretched behind him, cushioned his fall with the pearly white cast holding the hunter's arm in one piece, which was why Sam was now looking on wearily while nursing his throbbing hand.

Scott was contesting with the human animal by growling viciously, the act seeming a little too _natural_ for a simple high school student and unbelievable for him to be holding his own against a full grown werewolf.

"You're all werewolves, aren't you?" Sam groaned breathlessly. He was definitely screwed, Sam concluded, after he sent a quick glance into the shadows for any clue as to where his pistol had flown off to.

The werewolf tried to circumvent Scott with a growl, but Scott returned in kind and strong-armed the attempt. Something about his stature changed, an aspect of how he stood shifted from a self-conscious teenager to an authoritative alpha.

"Derek," he growled. "Stop!"

"He's a _hunter_, Scott," 'Derek' stated as if that was all he needed to pass judgment.

Scott inclined his head dangerously, and Derek cowed reluctantly, his features shifting back to a more human presence. His eyes, however, remained an icy, electric blue. Scott, seemingly satisfied Derek wouldn't attempt another coup de grace, faced Sam, who was at the same time surprised and not by the flaming crimson of the teenager's irises. It was a show of affirmation but also a warning to Sam. Any eighteen year old who could calm a charging adult should not be taken lightly. Isaac stepped around the hunter and joined his friend. His own eyes were a brilliant tawny, and Sam, for the first time, experienced a moment of panic.

He knew the fear he felt over yellow eyes was pathetically stupid because he was even aware of the meaning behind the varying color of the eyes, but since he had fought the Yellow-Eyed Demon, the color held more meaning than a simple gradation of pigment. The first time he had learned about the orientation of pack leadership, he had been eighteen, and he and John had had an argument for the fifth time that trip. In fact, it had been a few weeks before Sam had slammed the door and hadn't looked back.

It had been cold, even for a night in February in Western Massachusetts. Sam, Dean, and John had driven to Lenox, a small town in the Berkshires because there had been reports of animal attacks that hadn't fit into the zoography of Western Mass.

_John slammed the Impala door. His breaths were dispersing as clouds before him, and it only added to his appearance of being truly pissed off. Sam also firmly closed the car door and stood heaving in the frigid weather. The only one to close the door with any respect for the antiquity was Dean, and he could only look on with wary._

_Tonight was unique at the same time it wasn't. John and Sam were constantly at each other's throats, but it had passed a certain point when Sam had had the opportunity to shoot a pack member and had missed, winging the man before he disappeared. It had been tense enough Dean had offered to sit in the back, something he never did, so that Sammy might relax a bit. It hadn't gone as planned as Sam had inadvertently slammed the Impala door in his brother's face._

_"Sammy…" Dean began before his brother could act on his feelings, but Sam wasn't the problem._

_"What the hell were you thinking?" John interrogated severely._

_"What was I thinking about what?" Sam snapped back, although Dean knew he was just provoking a greater reaction._

_"Letting that—_thing_—go," John was posted before Sam now, his posture fixed, his feet melded to the ground, and he was unmoving despite the shiver-inducing cold._

_"I shot him," growled Sam. He clenched his fists hard, hard enough to slice his palms with his nails, dotting them with crescent moons. "But I missed."_

_"No. You let him go."_

_"Hey, why don't we go inside?" Dean grinned tightly, locating his body in between the two and trying to marshal his father and brother inside the squalid, vile hovel they had rented. But Sam threw off Dean's arm and faced his father straight on._

_"Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't see how killing some guy would solve our problems!"_

_"It wasn't some guy," John shouted tumultuously. "It was a werewolf! A monster!" He was just as uncontrollable, facing his disobedient son who was meant to be his unquestioning soldier._

_"No. It is some guy who transforms into a monster every full moon. He's still someone with a family. With a job and a house. I don't understand why—"_

_"Why…what?" The shift in volume and intensity was so instant and disconcerting, Sam choked on whatever thought he had been following. Dean's breath caught in his throat, the chill from the winter air dispersing throughout his chest._

_"Why your first reaction is to shoot and never ask questions."_

_A scowl impaired John's bearded face and he took one step closer to his son. "Because I don't need to. Anything less than human is a monster, and we send monsters to hell."_

_"Yeah," the youngest Winchester scowled. "And there are never exceptions." He held out his hands, palms outwards, and backed away from the car. "You know what, I need some air. Don't wait up."_

_He spun on his heels and began his defiant march into the frostbitten night._

_"Sam!"_

_He knew the voice was Dean, but Sam didn't care to look back. There was no crunching gravel to warn Sam he was being followed, and he could just catch the tail whispers of John's latest in his bigoted mandates._

_"Let him go, Dean."_

_Sam snorted, kicking a larger pebble off the beaten path. _Yeah, let me go_, he growled sardonically, _it's all just a rebellious phase_. His father never understood why Sam was so adamantly against following orders. His father had never seen the reports that went home in Sam's book-bag, never heard the comments and praises that were meant to be acknowledged at Parent-Teacher conferences, and never cared to notice that all of Sam's shares of the credit scams disappeared to the same cause, Common Application fees._

_The anger he felt towards his father's partial mind burned like shards of glass were coursing through his veins. Sam just wanted him to see how un-hunter-like his youngest actually was. Sure Sam was the best researcher of the three, and probably the smartest, but he didn't have the conviction his brother and father shared. He couldn't look at something and separate it from its human appearance. And he wasn't even entirely consumed by the urge, the yearning and longing, to find the demon who murdered his mother. That was Sam's real secret. He felt disgust and revulsion at the abomination, but he, his brother and father had decimated enough demons to account for the sin of one monster. Every time the thought surfaced in his mind, guilt sunk its tainted teeth into the Winchester's heart, tearing at the hole a mother's care was supposed to fill._

_Sam stopped mid-tirade when he faltered over his own, overly large feet. He had stalked halfway down the gravel road when suddenly it had altered to pavement, conjoining with a highway. Even as a state road, there were no signs of life in the night. The obscure motorway was only shadowed by the looming mountain to the right and the flooding sea of thin trees to the left. A flicker of movement drew Sam's attention, but after a moment of vivid focus, the shadow had simply been a trick of the wind._

_There was nothing. The street lights were a half a mile away from each post, and the sky was void of stars, the only reliable light coming from the brilliantly luminescent moon. The finger-like baton branches encroached on the visible light and reached outwards for Sam enough to put the young hunter on edge. When Sam glanced back the way he came, it seemed much darker and ominous than it had when he had first passed through._

_Slowly, the ire ebbed away, and Sam simply felt tired. No amount of arbitrating from Dean would fix the problems Sam had with his father. And Sam felt like he was swallowing frozen embers each time he read the ebony letters, but truth was, he had made his mind the second the ample, momentous packet had arrived…_

_Sam had just decided to walk back to the cabin when a dark shadow abruptly obstructed his path. It was of average size, covered with shaggy hair that looked black in the lightless woods, and every one of its aspects, besides the glowing, elongating fangs, were obscured by the shadows. It smiled briefly before howling and advancing toward the Winchester. Azure blue eyes traced every movement, including the attempts its prey made to retreat from its approach._

_Sam stumbled over the loose rocks that had made its way from the gravel path to the state road. Another shadow appeared besides the first one, followed by another and another until a mix of amber and cerulean eyes steamed in the cold air. They stepped out_ _from in between the trees and drew a circle of four points around the hunter, until there was only one space left, and it was directly in front of Sam._

_An old man, his arm bandaged in white, iridescent dressing, was the last of the seven to appear. His hair was almost a sickening yellow in the moonlight; his clothes were tattered from running through the woods night after night. An amused aura clouded him, and although Sam couldn't yet see his face, his posture reflected his smiling expression. He would have reason to smile, reflected Sam grimly, him having cornered the hunter who had lodged a piece of silver into his arm. The old man was easily recognizable, with the snow white hair and the pigeon-legged limp. But the hair and the limp was not what snagged Sam's attention. The varying irises were enthralling. Most members of the pack adorned cobalt eyes, a few had ochre, but the old man's—his eyes, when he flashed his white canines, were blood red._

_His voice was abrasive, like he had spent more than half his years with a cigarette between his lips. "Hunter," he crooned. "What would you be doing out here, all alone, after you and your pack have declared war on my territory?"_

_Sam choked back any response that would lead to his premature demise. Distantly, he smiled over the thought that Dean's juvenile manner had rubbed off on him despite Sam's attempts at surpassing his brother's wisdom._

_The man shifted his bandaged arm pointedly. "You're one lousy shot, kiddo." The surrounding pack loped in amusement, but there was something darker in their laughter. Something that was more loathing than the other emotions on the entertained veneer. The grandpa grinned a set of fangs and waved off the aggressive advances the wolves were making. "My boys are angry, see? They only listen to me, and you seemed to have damaged the vessel. Flesh wound granted, but silver bites."_

_Sam had been stepping back imperceptibly, but with a new realization, he stopped in his tracks. He ran through the different theories of werewolf leadership, the orientation of natural and demonic wolf leadership. There had been talk of different eye color meaning different statuses, and at that moment, Sam figured it was right. "You're the alpha."_

_"And the boy has brains," the werewolf congratulated. "I wonder what else he has."_

_"Why don't you try me, Cujo?" Sam growled._

_The men creating the circle hissed and snarled in warning, but their commander and chief called them off. "I like you. You've got a fight buried deep." Suddenly, his face grew darker and longer, an ashen tone strewn across his wooly features until he was no longer the human wolf. The eyes were the same, but they held a more animalistic gleam, a feral hunger that burned with sanguine light. Bones morphed under his skin and his ears pared until they resembled a jackal's. His teeth were fangs, and dark liquid flowed down them as they pierced the soft flesh of his mouth, and he was more wolf than man. At that moment, Sam understood how his father saw the supernatural, how he could separate the humans from the demons._

_"Too bad," the alpha mused, "the fight won't save you."_

_He leaned in towards Sam, slowly, menacingly and mockingly. Like he had whatever time to kill Sam, destroy him and tear at him because they believed no one was coming for him. But alert flickered across the old man's face. He arrested bemusedly, fangs inches from Sam's neck, staring over Sam's shoulder, and his red eyes blinked to that of a normal human in his confusion. Sam side-stepped, intending to search for whatever it was that had caught the alpha's attention, but a deafening crack brought every movement to a halt. The resonance that echoed from the shot was outdone by the cry that followed._

_He began to fall, blood beginning to seep from his heart and looking like a haunted lake in the light of a lunar eclipse, and the alpha was dead before he even hit the ground._

_Sam didn't need to see them to know who had pulled the trigger, and he acted accordingly. He lashed out against the nearest wolf, striking at the throat first then the face. Another shot rang out, and Dean was close enough to beat one of the pack members._

_After a moment, they fought back ferociously, but also with a lacking. A lack of leadership, Sam realized with a start. The old man had been an alpha, and although they wanted to avenge the death of their chief, they also didn't want to die for a tyrant who was already dead._

_Some did however; two of the pack members fell with steaming abysses filled with silver. The others were injured, nicked or maimed by bullets. They inflicted their own damage on_ _the Winchesters, but after Dean had interfered in their kill and their father was murdered, they began to run. Probably afraid of the last and deadliest of the Winchesters, inferred Sam. He had only sustained a small cut above his eye, and it was superficial and shouldn't leave a scar. He grinned sheepishly at his brother and rubbed the back of his shaggy head._

_"Some air, huh," Dean frowned. "What the hell were you thinking, Sammy?"_

_Sam tried to think of an excuse, but he settled for walking past his brother with a quiet utterance of, "it's Sam."_

_He didn't doubt that Dean would check to make sure the pack members and alpha were really dead, and he didn't really want to see the damage he and his brother had dealt to the young members. They couldn't have been older than twenty-four. Least their father would be proud—and upset—at the total destruction they wreaked on the pack, after scolding them for leaving the bodies lying out in the open._

_Dean jogged in the direction of the motel in order to catch up with his brother's long strides. Once he reached the same pace, he bumped shoulders with Sam to show he wasn't as upset as he let on, also checking to see if Sam was still pissed. "Just don't run off like that. Can't watch out for you if you run out on me."_

The replay of the hunt came unbidden and unwanted. Sam hadn't thought of the pack in Massachusetts in years, and even thinking of the pathetically petty fight between he and his father made his stomach churn like molten acid, but the words ending his own recollection were what truly broiled his insides. Sam didn't want to feel guilt over running out on Dean, but still the emotion came round to bite him in the ass.

Sam's finger twitched, his lips pulling into sneering frown. "You're an alpha," he breathed. He drove himself to stand up straight and looked on the pack of teenagers, all of whom were sharing wary miens. Scott positioned himself at the crown of his friends, and only Stiles seemed to be questioning the supervision. He inched closer to the Winchester with curiosity practically seeping out of every orifice and his gaping jaw.

"You do know how a wolf becomes an alpha, don't you?" Sam asked.

"Well, yeah," he stuttered, but then the first realization came from Scott, quickly replicating throughout the pack. First he was surprised, probably that Sam had made the connection between the eye color and the succession of power, and he paled at the implication of it. "But, I didn't kill anyone."

"Yeah? Then how'd you become an alpha?"

"It just kind of happened?" Scott answered pitifully, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam nodded, sniggering in a disbelieving way. There was no way he believed that there was no killing, not that he wanted there to be. But according to his family philosophy, monsters were monsters, no matter the shape they appeared in. "Sorry if I find that a little hard to believe, but monsters aren't exactly trustworthy."

Stiles snorted shortly. "Yeah, because hunters are always so angelic."

That brought a slight smirk to Sam's face, nodding as he processed just how true it was. "So…" he had begun to pace marginally, just enough to slow his mind to a less feverish pace, "everyone in this town is a werewolf?"

Stiles shook his head, and Sam was beginning to wonder just how much this kid knew. He seemed to be more knowledgeable than the actual alpha, or at least he was the one who was more open to speaking to the outsider. "Just the vast majority are," the high schooler answered. "And you? You're a…hunter—that hunts ghosts?

"Among other things."

"What other things?"

"Basically anything that goes bump in the night."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The girl, Allison, finally spoke up. She had forgone her aggressive hold on her crossbow and was now curiously inching past the alpha's protective post. Scott sent her a warning glance, but she, almost too much so, insubordinately ignored him. "Until recently, we had only ever heard of werewolves. Then there were druids and kanimas, and now there are ghosts. Exactly what else is there?"

Sam hesitated. He'd given the truth is out there speech before, but most hadn't had any clue before they were serendipitously attacked by some supernatural, unbeknown force. He knew these kids probably could handle the truth of demons, of murder and sacrifice, and they had probably already handled worse. But he didn't want to break what little innocence he saw sheltering the teenagers. "You don't want to know."

~•~

**12:39 a.m.**

The industrial building was bleak, having one story and grey walls. The front door, the words Beacon Hills Animal Clinic plastered on the glass, was encased by wooden symbols that appeared to be pagan protective sigils. The sign read closed, but Scott had already begun to unlock the door with his own set of keys by the time Sam had even clambered out of the over-filled jeep. Stiles was the first to saunter in, pocketing his sundry assortment of rings, followed a few steps behind by Isaac and Scott. Allison kept her view trained on Sam, her eyes never wandering, her hand clenched on the kunai knife she believed was hidden. The last werewolf kept one step behind everyone, the last one over the threshold, and settled for glaring at the Winchester viciously.

"You work here?" Sam asked Scott, although he didn't really need, or actually receive, an answer.

The waiting room was clear of any signs of inhabitance besides from the occasional magazine scattered across a chair, and the only blink of light came from the examination room behind the counter. Stiles and Scott immediately made their way to the back, like it was nothing more than habit. Scott hadn't wanted to bring everyone back to his house. For one reason, even though his mother wouldn't be back for another few hours, he didn't want her to walk in while they were planning on taking care of a ghost who was going on a rampage—a thought that amused Sam: here was an omnipotent sovereign, an alpha, worried his mother would interrupt his playdate. The second reason, and no one spoke it aloud however obvious it was, was they didn't trust Sam.

Sam hovered awkwardly to the side of the examination room, not really wanting to relax but all the same wanting answers from the locals. After the initial disclosure in the woods, outside the property circle of the Masons, Sam had offered to take them back to his motel to get over the awkward introductions. The others had declined suspiciously and instead put forth a more mutually acceptable location.

Stiles dumped himself down on the cold, steel operation table, and studied Sam up and down. Isaac reclined against the far wall, his arms crossed across his chest, and Allison paused momentarily beside him before moving away from everyone else in the room, her gaze fleetingly finding Scott's.

"What about the owner?" Sam asked, attempting to break the silence.

"He won't be too surprised," Isaac averred knowingly. "What? I doubt anything really surprises him," he added when everyone, including Sam, questioningly turned to him.

"So he knows all about—" Sam waved a vague hand in a wide circle, "—this?"

"Who knows what he actually knows."

"Except _everything_," Stiles grumped. He turned to Isaac, continuing the diversion with Isaac. "Did you know he speaks sign language?"

"I don't think people actually _speak_ sign language—"

A deep throated growl cut off the rest of Isaac's amused retort. Derek appeared like a shadow next to the two boys and threateningly silenced them with a glare. His cold eyes found Sam and never left as he said, "What's your real name?"

"I told you, it's Sam—"

"Full name."

"Winchester." Sam waited for the recognition, but it never came. _What kind of hunters had never heard of the Winchester family?_ It was not something he usually liked to advertise, but he'd grown accustomed to the selectively aware to have at least heard the rumors of the boys. "You've never heard of me?"

"Should we have?"

Sam shook his head, the first rush of coolness slowing the beating his heart since Sam had first snuck out of that motel in Washington. He wasn't sure why he was relieved they didn't know who he was—or what he was, he added sardonically—but his gut unclenched marginally, enough to allay the slight nausea that had been building up over the past few days. "You know about hunters though?"

"My family's been in the business for generations. But I've only been taught about werewolves, not ghosts," answered Allison pointedly. "But you've hunted them before?"

"Yeah, my brother and I sort of live for this kind of thing." Sam busied himself with looking around the small office as he spoke. Most of the instruments had been cleared away to their proper place, but there was a pile of gauze that had yet to be ordered. "We look through articles, bizarre claims on absurd blogs to try and find something that might be—unnatural."

"Don't you have a life?"

Sam wasn't sure if Stiles had meant it as it came out, but he understood the implication. "That's kinda our job. We know how to deal with things like a deranged Casper or Cousin It when most people would probably run the other way." He stopped his distracting search of the room and faced the Beacon Hills pack. "What about you? How is it a small town like this has an overwhelmingly unbalanced ratio of monst—creatures to humans?"

Scott, Stiles, and Allison cringed simultaneously, not completely obvious but enough to draw attention to them. They shared a glance, something Sam was well too aware of what it entailed. He and Dean had shared enough of them under the circumstances of facing an overly curious suspect or interfering cops. The look that automatically synced their stories to fit one line of thought under questioning.

"There may have been a situation that ignited a beacon of sorts, drawing any supernatural entity in the Western Hemisphere to Beacon Hills," Stiles intoned.

"What kind of situation?"

"A ritual sacrifice."

Sam knew it wasn't funny, in fact his reaction was callous, but the tone with which Stiles stated it was so sheepishly casual that Sam snorted in his attempted to stifle the smirk and chortle that surfaced. To further disguise his apathetic response, he cleared his throat, "so, uh, how have you managed to keep all this quiet? I mean, with six people getting sacrificed and werewolves running around, don't people notice something's off?"

Stiles scratched the back of his head, scrunching his expression. "Well, Beacon Hills is sort of inhabited largely by an adult population that is either clueless, or in perpetual denial," he explained straightly. "Either way, it's a good thing since half their kids are growing facial hair within seconds."

"Wait, your parents don't know about you being werewolves? None of them?" That was one hell of a secret. Especially if they're running wild, howling at the moon once a month.

"My dad's dead," Isaac stated easily. Again, there was a surprising lack of empathy in their voices as they spoke so obviously and casually about something that should have held more meaning behind it. Scott and Stiles grimaced at Isaac disapprovingly, at which the other boy shrugged.

"My mom knows, actually," Scott continued, putting the awkward questions behind. "And Stiles's dad just found out."

"The sheriff knows? Does he know about me?"

"He thinks you really do work for the FBI. Which is going to be an awkward conversation," reflected Stiles quietly. He shrugged to himself, deeming the future exchange unworthy of his attention at the moment. "Why fake being an FBI agent anyways?"

It was Sam's turn to shrug, fiddling with the phone in his hand behind him. "Makes everything easier. I've been an FBI agent, lawyer, university student, you name it. People don't exactly open up to strangers without a reason," he answered distractedly. He hadn't noticed until now, but his phone had been quiet since earlier that afternoon. No calls had come in from Dean, Ellen, anyone, and it unnerved Sam a little. He hadn't realized how often he had let it ring its electronic heart out until it was no longer sounding. He flipped open the device and searched the screen. No calls or messages were listed, the only announcement being the bold One-oh-three that was displayed at the top.

"Look," Sam said, trying to stifle the groan that wanted to come out. "Why don't we just meet up tomorrow? I get that you have questions and you probably don't trust everything I've said—"

Derek snorted in agreement and disbelief from the corner, and Sam dutifully continued despite the flash of heat that graced the back of his neck, "—but it'll be easier to get things done when we're not sleep deprived. Besides, I've got things I need to do that don't involve retelling my entire life story to a bunch of kids."

"You're, like, four years older than us," protested Isaac, but he dropped his objection after a slow head shake from his alpha.

Scott nodded. "You don't trust us and we don't trust you, but…" he sighed and held out his hand to Sam, "you know how to stop this thing from killing people?"

Sam took the offering and shook the younger one's hand. "I know how to kill it."

~•~

**11:25 a.m.**

"Don't you have school?" Sheriff Stilinski wasn't surprised that his son and Scott had randomly and yet still predictably shown up at the station. He had given up a long time ago trying to decipher whether or not Stiles actually had a 'free period' because he had to, at some point in time, actually have one.

He held up a hand, stemming the words about to flow so easily from his son's mouth. "Don't tell me. I don't wanna know."

Stiles had the ability to look sheepish and offended at the same time, although he overcame the feelings when he ushered himself into the sheriff's office. He paused then shuffled back out of the room, a key ring jingling in his hand. The sheriff snatched them out of his hands, eliciting a small yelp from the kid as his finger was caught in the ring.

"What do you think your doing?"

Stiles rocked on his feet expectantly and acted like his actions were not only justified but obvious. He'd been acting that way ever since he got home past two o'clock in the morning. He had avoided the sheriff's questioning skillfully, turning everything around with grace that the sheriff could only stand at the base of the stairs in befuddlement.

Scott, thankfully, took the silence for his cue to explain what Stiles was waiting for. "We have a lead on how to take care of the," he glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear the discussion, "ghost."

"I thought you took care of it last night?"

"We were going to, but..." Stiles began to shepherd his father and friend out of the station, stealthily avoiding any entanglement with deputies. "…there was a situation with a glock and a werewolf." He had timed the ending of his statement to align with them exiting the building, except they hadn't made it quite that far. They were just past the front counter when he broke the news, and the sheriff's reaction was as predicted but came too quick.

"_What_?"

"Don't worry, we handledit. Well Scott did, but still."

"That's not comforting," he hissed. The deputy manning the counter was more than curious over the conversation, although she kept her distance. Worried about the possible incursion, Scott and Stiles angled Stilinski out of the station.

"Dad, we just need you to pull the guys off the Mason house," Stiles explained once they were huddled around the sheriff's SUV.

"Couldn't I have just done that from my office? And I did that. Last night, when apparently you were being attacked by gun-wielding ghosts!"

"The ghost didn't have a gun. The hunter did."

"What hunter?"

"The FBI agent."

Sheriff Stilinski froze. "The agent?" Sure the sheriff found a special agent investigating a local murder suspicious, but he didn't think there was something deeper than a man's strange pet peeve.

"Yeah," grinned Stiles, "turns out he's a ghost hunter." His grin found Scott, who apparently didn't find the situation as amusing as his counterpart. "I feel like we're well rounded now. Got a hunter for every occasion at this point."

Instead of intervening in the conversation going on between the two boys, the sheriff dialed the number of the officers watching the house and told them it was no longer necessary. "I doubt anyone will want to see the crime scene and our guys have already gotten all we needed."

The deputies agreed, and the sheriff had already climbed inside his car by the time he had slipped the phone back into his pocket. He glanced at Stiles and Scott questioningly. "Well?"

~•~

**11:44 a.m.**

He knew he shouldn't be surprised by how many cars were already at the scene, but the emotion still reared its ugly head. Three assorted cars were parked obviously in front of the Mason's house, their occupants either reclining against the hoods or standing casually beside them. The Sheriff pulled up next to the menacing SUV that was at least parked in the street, offering the appearance of someone visiting any other house on the street. If a neighbor happened to glance outside, he or she'd be gifted with the view with a bunch of teenagers looking for a thrill at a crime scene, and the sheriff just hoped they wouldn't call the police to report it. Luckily there were precious few houses, and the ones that were were littered far away from each other

The other two cars, an all-too familiar jeep that had arrived just before the sheriff and a small smokey blue Camry, were parked in the stone driveway. Allison stood to the side of her car, looking any where but at her father or Scott, and Isaac was trying to act like being alone with the two hunters didn't bother him. Stiles was anxiously waiting for…something. And once the sheriff had clambered out of his own car, he knew what. A rattling old pick-up truck was the last to arrive, it's driver not quite frowning but also not in any way smiling as he joined the congregation.

"Agent," the sheriff greeted, although he was already aware that the title had been fictitious—judging by the young appearance and the ratty old jeans he now wore, the sheriff pegged the 'agent' at being around twenty-five or younger. And there was no way he was an actual federal agent.

"Sheriff," he nodded back, smiling a greeting at the others.

"My daughter says you're a hunter?" Chris Argent placed himself protectively in front of Allison, much to her chagrin. He held out his hand, "Chris Argent."

With a fleeting glance at the sheriff and something that was close to contriteness, the hunter took the hand and replied, "Sam Winchester."

"Winchester?" Chris Argent smiled tightly, almost like there was something malicious behind it. "I knew your father, and brother. Good hunters. It's been years since I've seen them though, still up to the same things?"

Sam bit his lip, a sudden uncomfortable cloud shrouding his eyes. "Dad died a few months back," he replied succinctly, answering the unasked question, "demon."

His gaze avoided the sympathies that emanated from everyone. He didn't need their pity, something the sheriff knew well enough. The last thing someone like Sam wanted was to be coddled, and it was something only someone like Stilinski would understand. And he did.

"I think it'd be a good idea to keep going. Find the ghost and—" Stilinski rested a hand along his cheek and blew out his breath. "I don't even know what you do with a ghost. Send it to Heaven? Kill it?"

"Salt and burn it," supplied Sam. "You find whatever is holding it here and destroy the link." He had started for the front door, pausing only long enough for the key to be passed up the line. "Usually," he continued, "it's their remains, the corpse, but sometimes it's an item of meaning."

"Like a murder weapon?" suggested Isaac, stepping into the house after Sam with caution. After all there had been a maniacal ghost there the night before. The train of hunters and kids alike led through the house to the back, where the bedroom and kitchen were. Allison and Isaac moved to the hall, reveling in the fact the haunted house was filled with an abundance of light. The sheriff himself was glad there was no need for flashlights, and that there was a variety of people—werewolves, werewolf hunters, ghost hunters, and a law enforcement officer with a permit to carry lethal weaponry—helped assuage his fear of a ghost attack.

"Could be. Something like a necklace or a wedding ring." Sam was pacing the bedroom, a strange device whirring in his hand as he spoke. He grinned to himself despite the not-so-happy topic. "This one time, Dean and I were fighting a ghost, and it was the dead guy's old teeth. Apparently he'd buried them in his bedroom walls when he was a kid because he was so dedicated to catching the tooth fairy."

Sam paused in his searching, sighing at the device when it was barely making any movement. "Last night, I was getting a reading off something in the bedroom," he said by way of explanation. "Now there doesn't seem to be anything."

He addressed the sheriff, "your men weren't in here earlier, were they?"

"You think they took the object with them?" Argent came into the bedroom, slipping something back into his pocket as he questioned the other hunter. "You think that's how the ghost is choosing it's victims?"

"I can't think of any other reason. Ghosts haunt places where they die or they jump from person to person. I can't figure out how it went from possessing the Kyles to the Masons."

"Parrish," the sheriff said, holding up a silencing finger when Stiles and Scott had joined everyone in the bedroom. "I need to know if anyone went into the Mason house since last night?"

~•~

**12:01 p.m.**

"Inventory?" The sheriff sounded mad, Sam decided. "I told them not to go inside!" The sheriff sighed, sounding more like a deflating growl, and quietly thanked the deputy on the other line. He was pinching his eyes shut before he replied. "It seems a few of the deputies took it upon themselves to take inventory. They removed a few items from the house they thought were suspicious, but I have no idea what they mean by 'suspicious.' I'm willing to bet whatever is tying the ghost to Beacon Hills is now in Evidence."

The sheriff excused himself, growling something about deputies and sons giving him a heart attack, but Stiles only grinned sheepishly as his dad pulled back out onto the street and drove away. He and Scott began their descent out of the house without even asking if the others had found anything.

Sam wondered if that was generally how they solved their problems. Work for a few minutes then move onto the next task. He couldn't imagine they got much done with that process, although they hadn't had John Winchester drilling in the proper method of finding a ghost or monster. Whatever the kids did, it seemed to work nevertheless.

One by one, they began to file out of the house, Sam and Chris Argent being the last to close the door. Without needing to be told to, Scott, Isaac, and Stiles trotted around the house, just to check out if they could find anything without really expecting to. Allison, despite the original awkwardness, had sidled up with her friends and was complaining somewhat about a test they were supposed to be having in a few periods.

"It was Sam, right?" Argent's voice was subtly dubious, his voice overshadowing the crunching of the gravel of the driveway under his feet. He had fallen behind the company as they traipsed farther away from the house, down along the side by the road. "Dean's little brother?"

Caution intensified the fervent pressure in the back of Sam's throat. The feeling only peaked when he identified a sound that snapped an inch away from his ear. Sam concluded he had been in the hunting game too long when he could distinguish not only that the sound was indeed a gun being armed but that it was a Walther PK series. But still, Sam turned around, his face assaulted by the business end of a handgun.

Almost immediately, like a sixth sense, the others noticed the beginning of the altercation, and they immediately halted and fell back around the two hunters, although none passed the invisible demarcation line surrounding them.

"Dad," Allison cried, "what are you doing?"

"Sam Winchester," he said in way of answer.

"Let me guess: you've got some beef with my dad," Sam growled, mechanically raising his hands to promise no funny business. "Well, sorry to disappoint, but he's already dead. Kind of puts a damper on your revenge scheme."

Argent ignored the venom in the youngest Winchester's voice and strengthened his hold on the grip. "Gordon Walker."

The breath was crushed out of Sam's lungs and he felt a feeling similar to drowning: pressure to inhale but knowing something lethal awaited him if he did.

"He's been spreading the word that whoever sees Sam Winchester shouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger," Argent continued.

"Dad, that's insane. Put the gun down."

All around the two hunters, there were small utterances, repetitions of "Put the gun down," and "What are you doing?" but Sam's sole focus was on the grey eyes split by the steel alloy. The entire cosmos was centered on the hunters because Sam had no doubt Argent would put down anything he deemed a monster dangerous to the world—exactly what his father and brother would do.

"Gordon Walker wants you dead. Why?"

"Maybe because he's insane," Sam tried to scoff, but it came out as a frustrated snarl. "My brother and I, we left him tied up in his own filth for three days. That doesn't exactly inspire comradeship."

"No. It's more than that," Argent cocked the Pk. Vaguely, Sam tried to read the expression behind the cold eyes, tried to read whether or not he intended to shoot, or whether he just wanted to get answers. "It's something to do with who you are."

He leveled the gun against Sam's forehead, the icy metal contrasting against the younger man's nervous fever. Sam blinked reflexively, but when he opened them, everything had changed.

A brown leather and blue jean shadow collided with Argent, taking down both the hunter and the gun. They tumbled in the leaves and rolled repeatedly as the momentum overshot any restraint and resistance either men had. Sam's first instinct was that one of the wolves had tackled the hunter, but a quick tally of heads burned that conclusion like it was kerosene. Both the werwolves and their two human friends were staring, frozen, at the wrangling shapes, each half trying to get the upper hand. Slowly, the two shapes distinguished themselves, the initial aggressor becoming clear and emerging from the fundamental blur.

Sam's feet finally moved of their own accord, and he found himself gawking down at two men, one being Argent, now disarmed and glowering at the assailant, and the other holding the gun menacingly and murderously angry. He struck Argent, closed fist, and shouted, "You do that to my brother, I'll kill you!"

Dean made it to his feet without once wavering the gun, and Argent held his jaw sensitively and protectively.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. He halted at his brother's side but didn't touch him. "Dean, stop."

There was a flash of hazel brown eyes as he glimpsed at his brother out of the corner of his eyes, but Dean's head shook marginally. He realigned his grip on the gun. "Can't do that, Sammy."

"You know this guy?" demanded a voice from behind Sam. It had come from Isaac, who still rarely spoke, and it took Sam by surprise. But the surprise was lost when Stiles smirked.

"Sammy?" he snorted.

Sam paused, twisting momentarily to glare venomously at the boy to his right, before he stepped closer to Dean and raised his hands in pacifying gestures. He still refrained from touching his brother. He wasn't ready to do that yet. Somehow, Sam equated touching his brother with forgiving him, with comforting Dean with the knowledge that Sam didn't hold whatever it was he felt against Dean, and he wasn't prepared to let that go yet.

Sam reached far enough for Dean's offending grip that his brother shrugged it away. A steel curtain fell over Sam's vision, and he agreed with the movement made. _He really doesn't believe I won't turn dark side_, his conscious whispered in the abysmal darkness of Sam's mind. _Fine_.

When he spoke, his voice was detached, cold. "Dean, put the gun down."

Dean heard the change in his voice, and this time more than just his eyes flickered to his brother's face. With jerking motions, he lowered the gun, although Dean's knuckles flashed white from his grip, and he was prepared for any aggressive movement towards his fraternal charge.

"You ditched me, Sammy," he said too lightly, hiding the gut-wrenching feeling he'd had ever since he'd woken up and his baby brother was gone.

"I had some things I had to work out," Sam replied tersely. He knew the wolf pack was watching the altercation with strained control, that they were aware how close it had been to a crime scene, but they also knew that intervening where they shouldn't—in the business of those specific hunters, at that specific time—was not a wise life choice. "Ellen call you?" Sam finished.

There was a small jerk of the head and Dean's attention moved to the others at the side of the house. There was nothing unordinary about the kids, except for the fact they were completely fine with the appearance of a gun and some random maniac holding it in another man's face. Dean fixed his eyes on each of the teenagers, trying to get a read on who or what they were. "Who're they?"

Sam knew what they were going to do before Scott had even moved. Maybe it was because Sam had admitted to knowing Dean, that they were both hunters, but Scott had begun to incline his head, like he had done the night before when the alpha revealed his nature through his eyes. And Sam knew he couldn't let them, not when Dean was still so dedicated to his father's mandates of a 'monster is a monster, no matter the shape or form.'

"They're the ones who found the ghost in the first place," Sam said hurriedly, "He's a hunter," indicating Argent who was still standing protectively, like he was under attack.

Dean speculated Sam intently, the loathing glower disappearing when his eyes were trained on his brother. Either he was making sure no harm had come to his baby brother, deciding which side of his face should receive the shiner he intended to give his brother, or determining whether Sam was hiding something or not.

"And they're completely OK with the fact Casper's real?"

"They're well adjusted." Sam paused and sent a meaningful, silent warning at the pack. 'Not yet.' If Dean caught the glance or found the hesitation suspicious, he didn't say anything. "Look, Dean. This ghost…somehow it's moving from place to place, and it's leaving a trail of bodies wherever it goes."

"Is this your way of asking for help, Sammy?"

With clenched jaw, he grudgingly accepted, "yes."

* * *

**So, this is going to follow my own thought process as well as some of TW season 3B  
**

**also I know it seems like it may be moving fast seeing as it's taken place over like five days, but now that Dean's here it's gonna slow down**

**bonus points to anyone who can tell me what the french equivalent is for the Bitch/Jerk ritual thing Sam and Dean do. I've been watching the French dub but I cant figure out what they say.**

**as always REVIEW!**


	5. Chapter 5

**12:18 p.m.**

Dean knew there was something with those kids. They were too—normal. Even after he had calmly crashed into a guy, threatened to pop lead through his head—with his own gun no less— and then abashedly grumbled an apology, the kids had barely batted an eye. Okay, Dean acknowledged, Sam had already given them the lowdown on the creepy 'n crawlies of the night but still the volatile mood swings should have been enough to elicit at least a small gasp of shock.

And yet there was silence.

Sweet, sweet silence that encased his baby brother like a blazing shell of pubescent hatred. When Dean had told Sam what their father's dying words were, he'd known there was bound to be blowback, some words exchanged, but he hadn't guessed that Sam would run away, find a hunt in some apple-pie town and befriend a bunch of teenagers. Maybe Dean didn't know Sam as well as he thought.

Speaking of whom, his baby brother was still standing next to the house, masked with stony indifference—actually, Dean mended his description, to the point Sam was taking it, the expression probably could be classified as indifferent hostility in the genus of pugnacious passive aggression. He had barely moved after the initial reaction of stopping Dean from pulling the trigger, and only had the party of five had even marginally budged from their spots by the house.

"I thought your brother was dead," intoned a confused curly haired teen.

Dean cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "You told them I was dead."

Sam shrugged annoyingly and shook his head, a reluctantly amused grin replacing the hostility in a brief moment of perplexity.

"Just the way you were talking about him," the kid elaborated. Judging by his friends' responses and identical bemusement worn, the kid in the sweater wasn't alone. "It made him sound dead."

Annoyance flared just beneath the surface of Dean's eyes. It felt like a nasty poke to the bear's fleshy, unprotected stomach because not only had Sammy ditched him, but he'd made it sound like he'd died. _Was that how Sam really felt? Great. Just great._ Dean found his expression sunk to replicate Sam's terse one. Brooding forehead and all.

"Thanks, Sammy," he found himself grumbling. "Here I was thinking you were the one in danger, when I'm the one who's apparently dead." Dean began to turn away, intending to sulk back to the Chevy Impala in a very manly manner. Before he made it two feet, however, his fist was swinging back wildly, and it connected with the side of Sam's face. Pain flared across his knuckles, but the satisfaction of the thump that came out of it outshot the rhythmic thrumming resonating down his wrist.

Sam accepted the hit without a complaint, only fingering the blotchy redness that had begun to appear along the cheek bone.

"Feel better?" he grumped. At seeing the livid set of Dean's jaw, he sighed and amended, "look, I was serious about the help. The ghost has killed two people already."

"Have you checked for EMF?"

"Course. The first house was clear when I got there, but the second got a hit last night only it's not there now. The sheriff is checking the Evidence lockup in case whatever is haunted is being held there."

"How about violent deaths in the area?" Dean had meant it as a serious question. After all, barbarous, heinous murders and suicides generally aren't a laughing matter, but that was exactly what one of the kids did, although it was more of a snort.

He was the one who seemed the shiftiest. His brown Hazel eyes skipped from person to person, starting with Dean and Sam, the other hunter and the girl, then the last two boys, lingering on the kid with short dark hair and with this dangerous—aura—emanating. His jaw was kept slightly agape, like he had something to add every time someone made a comment, and even then in the possible tensest moment of this kid's life, he was continuously and incessantly fidgeting his feet, as if about to bolt.

Dean fixed his best glare on him.

"This is Beacon Hills," the kid explained. "We basically coined the phrase 'violent death.'"

The man, who seemed beyond familiar to Dean, exhaled in a vocal replacement of rolling his eyes. He seemed like the kind of man to mature to give into those sort of actions, smirked Dean bitterly. "What Stiles means is that Beacon Hills has been host to a lot of —paranormal deaths. None of which have been similar to this."

"Thanks but I can find that out myself," growled the elder Winchester. "Who are you anyways? Why do you want my brother dead?"

The man appeared unperturbed by Dean's onslaught and he calmly adjusted his stance to something less protective. His grey-green stare remained intact and challenging when he responded, calculating Dean's reaction to the words. "Associates of mine have been spreading warnings about your brother. Saying he's dangerous. I was just assessing the truth behind the statements."

Dean scoffed. "Dangerous? He's got more of a conscience than I do, I mean, the guy feels guilty surfing the Internet for porn"—Sam grunted uncomfortably in objection to the statement, but that did little to stop Dean—"if anyone here is dangerous, it's me."

"Not according to Gordon Walker."

"Walker?" Laughter garbled the hunter's name, but it wasn't mirthful or jovial. "The guy hates our guts. Last time we ran into him, we tied him up in some back water barn after setting a vamp free. Me and Sammy aren't exactly his best pals at the moment. The guy's insane."

"Vampires are real?" The exclamation had come from the same boy as before, Styles. For a brief moment, Dean's focus strayed on the radical reasons a parent would have for naming their child _Styles_, but mentally shaking himself, he moved on quickly and turned an accusing glance on his brother.

"I thought you gave them the 'Truth Is out There Speech' already."

To which Sam only shrugged helplessly and indifferently. The older brother's initial relief, and frustration, was evaporating rapidly and in its place came rabid, older sibling annoyance.

"I did!" Sam defended.

"Saying you hunt everything that goes 'bump in the night' is not as explanatory as you think it is," pointed out the blond curly-haired teen.

"Not to mention that the dark and mysterious 'you don't want to know' reply really doesn't set boundaries for the imagination," the girl said for the first time since Dean had collided with the group.

Dean's green eyes roved up and down the girl, minus his usual intentions. Despite her aggressive countenance and warning plastered everywhere, including the very air she breathed, the little innocence that remained reminded Dean of a distant memory, a flicker of recognition. Just like her father, because he was fairly sure they were related, Dean swore he had seen her somewhere, but none of the Winchesters had ever been to Beacon Hills, California before.

She grew uneasy of the speculation and shifted uncomfortably.

"Argent," Dean whispered. He took in the scuffing of each person and drew the conclusion the name was right. The faces and names had finally slid into place. Of course from the get-go, he'd suspected some kind of paranormal tie. Dean just hadn't known what that tie was. Now he was sure. "Werewolf hunter."

The intensity of the silence that had followed magnified until no one could even handle it. Glances passed between the teenagers, then between Allison and her father, finally between everyone excluding Dean. Sam sighed.

"Where you staying, Dean?"

For the first time, Dean smirked full heartedly. Despite the tone his little brother used, Dean still had hope, and yet shaking nausea reared its ugly head. His brother had always worshipped him, seen the older brother as a superhero. Especially when Dean stumbled home blindly the next day with a pair of dark sunglasses, a travel mug full of Bloody Mary, and a new figurative notch (because the motels would have a fit if Dean started carving up the furniture) on his bedpost, or when Dad left Dean in charge of a simple salt and burn. But the way Sam had asked him where he was staying was…mixed. Dean could tell that his little brother was beyond angry, maybe even furious, but Sam was also amused by Dean's tenacity.

"Don' know, Samm—" he broke off. Not Sammy. No need to offend Sam anymore with the use of the name he hated. "I was a little busy trying to find my little brother. What about you? Where you staying?"

Sam hesitated before he spoke. "A small motel on the outskirts of town."

Dean nodded. "Okay." He clapped his hands, grinning like a mad man. "Come on then. I'm tired and hungry. I'm thinking pie." He smiled in satisfaction when Sam could no longer hide his grin and cracked.

Behind the brothers, Stiles, Isaac, Scott, and Allison were watching with open mouths. More than just the inside jokes confused them, as for one moment the two were punching the other in the face and the next they were laughing about pie and discussing where they were going to sleep.

"Uh, okay…" Stiles muttered. "That's nice, but what are we going to do about the phantom ghost that's ripping apart chests of anyone it sees?" He waved his hands in a variety of motions to emphasize the point.

Sam was the first to respond. "Well, there've been a few days in between the killings. Let's hope that's the ghost's pattern."

"Let's hope? My dad is at the station right now. He's looking for that thing that's keeping the she-monster here!"

"Look, kid. We can't kill the ghost if we don't know anything about the ghost. Like where the bones are…why she wants to kill everyone…" Dean's explanation and admonishes were not met well. Stiles scowled and stormed away from the group, digging his phone out of pocket. Allison ducked her head and mumbled something about checking on him while Isaac followed her dutifully and obviously.

Amused, Dean watched the puppy dog glean reflected in every part of Scott's face. His brown eyes traced the hunter's movements like they were sacred and golden, and they regarded the other boy's as blasphemous, encroaching on his territory.

"You do actually have a plan to fix this right?"

"Yeah," Sam replied quietly. "We'll stop this before anyone else gets hurt."

~•~

**12:36 p.m.**

Sargent Archer was close to finishing her shift. She'd been on the clock since noon and she believed her time at the station was close enough to being over that once she finished logging theses watches and necklaces and rings into Evidence, she could go home for some much needed T.V. binge watching.

Her blue latex gloves tipped the baggy, encouraging the Rolex knockoff to slide out without resistance. The minute hand was frozen, but the seconds ticked by loosely. The next item, a simple ring, was polished despite the tarnishing that marked the place near the welding.

Karen Archer glimpsed at the clock again. She groaned and slipped the next item out of its bag. It was a simple necklace of pearls, a small locket hanging fixed at the center. It looked old, authentic—a Victorian type locket with a harsh woman's face carved into bone white.

The policewoman had always believed herself to be understanding and loving to almost everyone. She even treated suspects with some ounce of kindness, seeing the situation from their points of view while her coworkers saw everything from their one side. But the moment her finger brushed the smooth carving, she seemed to forget where she was, why she was wasting her time doing meaningless things.

_Anger_.

A small smile spread across her lips. She brushed her thumb over the surface of the pendent again.

_It was black, and it was deep_.

Karen repeatedly smoothed the surface of her glove against the locket until that wasn't good enough. She plucked the latex from her skin and hesitantly drew her thumb to the marble. A cold numbness pricked her skin like someone had thrust a needle into her and forced ice water through the plunger. A love of the sensation removed the second glove, and soon she was caressing the necklace in the coldness of her grasp.

_Anger is what caused my death_, it whispered.

Sargent Archer brought the pendant closer to her ear, cooing to the stone and metal.

_And anger is what you will cause__._

Karen dazedly stared before her, where the sunlight drifted through the tinted window lazily. A woman in a gorgeous gown cried in the light. The tears were angry, and Karen only felt fury.

The woman's lips moved silently, and Karen brought the locket once more to her ear.

_Men could not be trusted and never will be faithful. You know _he_ is not. Make him pay._

Karen stood numbly. He had to pay. He had to die. He was unfaithful, and she could do something to rectify his mistake, his failure.

_No. Not yet._

"No. Not yet," she whispered.

_It must be romantic. A scarlet end to a golden evening._

Karen slid to the edge of her chair and continued filing the evidence. She worked and ignored all distractions, but she could only focus on the burning fire behind her eyes and the frozen breath on the back of her neck.

~•~

**6:12 p.m.**

"I'm fine, Ellen, really," Sam groaned.

Dean grinned in triumph. This was at least somewhat therapeutic, listening to his brother being chastised by the elder hunter. Dean had sent a quick word over to Ellen, so she'd know Dean had found his jerk of a brother and that they were both in one piece after the reunion, but he'd also mentioned that Sam had lost the ghost and gotten the local sheriff involved. Harvel had immediately called and given the youngest Winchester much grief over ditching Dean.

"…yeah, I'll tell him…you too…bye." Sam snapped shut his cell phone and dropped to his bed, face down.

Dean knew he should probably keep his mouth shut, but his older brother and shot nerves needled him to probe the kid. In the name of revenge.

"So, what'd Ellen have to say?"

Sam threw a glare through the pillow his face was buried in. "Nothing."

"Really?" He grinned. "Sounded like she had a lot to say. Much like I did."

His little brother fixed himself into a sitting position, rubbing a knuckled fist into his temple. Sam usually saved those movements for when he was about to get a vision, but when no yelling or cursing came after, Dean relaxed. _Shot nerves_, he brushed it off.

"How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?"

Dean glared off into space across the room. He honesty could not fight Sam all night. He was too tired, but he also couldn't just let Sam go after the worry he'd caused. He was tempted to say a 'a few hundred more times,' but he settled for something less serious and pissed sounding.

"So…a simple haunting. Seems about right."

"Sure."

"No demons, no yellow eyes…just a simple ghost maniac in need of some salt and lighter fluid." A knock on the motel door stopped Dean from continuing his awkward tirade. Both he and Sam froze, exchanging knowing, guarded glances. They drew their weapons and held them at the ready as Dean approached the door. "You expecting anyone?" he whispered.

Sam shook his head.

Dean shrugged and pulled the door open suddenly, one hand grasping a gun behind his back.

Scott and Stiles jumped, Scott's hand frozen from where he was about to knock again. Stiles grinned awkwardly in greeting, sarcastically, but Scott just lowered his arm.

"Uh, hi," he said.

Dean pushed the door open the rest of the way, tossing his gun onto the bed as he went by. Sam set himself back down, leaving his own weapon on his pillow. The two teens wandered into the room cumbersomely. Stiles rubbed the back of his head and stared openly at the firearms, then the replenished line of salt at the windows. For a few minutes, no one said anything, and Dean was growing tired and annoyed enough that he waved his arm briefly.

"So what's the meaning of this little powwow? Was there another attack?"

"No, well, actually the opposite. Talked to my dad, and he said that he ran that little 'ghost test' thing with the EMF. There's nothing supernatural at the police station."

"Then why you here?"

Scott stepped forward, angling himself so that the pale blue jeep was obvious in the parking lot of the little motel. "Uh, well, my mom—and the sheriff—thought that…well, food out of a can probably isn't any better than my mom's cooking."

"Though Melissa was never really a gifted cook. That's why we're picking up Chinese," Stiles smirked.

~•~

**6:12 p.m.**

The duffel bag pounded the apartment floor of where it had been dropped. It was abandoned, its contents still fully loaded and, at the time, useless. The mirror hanging on the wall revealed a disheveled, perturbed man with a bruise just beginning to line his jaw. He should have seen him coming, after all, the rumors of the Winchester boys evolved around the significance of family and the loyalties that lied therein.

Argent didn't feel remorse for pulling the gun on the younger hunter. With all the rumors that had been circling the underground network about the Winchester, he was prepared to do what was necessary, even if it meant taking down the last bit of family Dean had. It was strange though, that if family was the only thing they cared about, then why the first time Argent had met John and Dean Winchester, Sam hadn't been anywhere in sight of the rest of his family.

_He had heard legends of the hunter—you couldn't be a hunter without having heard of John Winchester—and what he saw was exactly why Allison was still ignorant of the world of the Supernatural. John Winchester carried himself like a warrior, his chest tall, his eyes always searching for the next attack and the next kill. Straggly hair proved how uncaring of public appearance the man was, how his unkempt his clothes detailed the unmanageable life he led took every ounce of his being to avoid becoming the next meal of whatever it was he was hunting._

_But the simple appearance of the Winchester was not what terrified Argent. Dean Winchester was the true horror, a warrior, his father the commander and chief. Hair just longer than a military cut, he swaggered after his father with little restraint in decorum, aside from the blind following he held for his father. With a cocky grin splattered across his face, he smirked knowingly at each hunter as he passed, like he knew more than everyone else in the room. It was more than likely true, concluded Chris. After all, the rumors were that John had raised his boys to be warriors after his wife was killed by the supernatural, and those boys had amassed more knowledge in the past years than the generations of Argents all together. Dean tried to emulate his father far too obviously, sporting the same oversized leather jacket as the old man, popping the collar and drawling expletives. But the man never saw his son, at least not in the way Dean wanted._

_Chris waited, looking for the youngest of the Winchester family, but no one followed behind. He moved closer to the table where a layout of a property decided when and where hunters would be in a few hours' time. Kate Argent bit her lip and drew her hand across the back of Dean's shoulders. He followed her movements slightly, a grin spreading from one corner to the next._

"_Where's the other one?" She asked. "I heard there were three Winchesters running around."_

_Both men froze, Dean's grin falling from his face. He straightened and subtly brushed away her hand, glancing at his father's tense frame. The younger answered, "Sammy's taking a break from hunting."_

_John transferred all attention to the project at hand, bringing forward his infamous knowledge of the supernatural. The Argent family had been following the pack long enough that once they had finally tied down the alpha, it was a lot bigger than they had expected. The alpha, a relatively young man, was much more powerful than the average male, having killed over three other alphas for control of the territory. Gerard called his old comrade and his boys seeing as John Winchester had the Big Book on Monsters and the knowhow of killing overly big lycanthropes._

_Another hour passed of small bickering, mostly young hunters wanting to be closer to the action than they were, but Chris was oblivious to their conversations. At least until a small voice called down the stairs._

"_Dad?"_

_The entire basement fell silent. Chris knew immediately that the bickering had escalated into something bigger, louder. A little girl with black ringlets was silhouetted by the kitchen light from above, and she clutched each elbow protectively. The nine-year old would have been used to the impromptu, extremely-late meetings her father held, but it still didn't mean she liked them._

_Victoria Argent squeezed Chris's arm as she passed. "_Cave Versipellis_," she stated before ushering her daughter back to her room._

_Chris turned back to the table in time to see John Winchester's expression. _

"_What?" He demanded, and the ex-marine shrugged it away._

_Leading up to the last minutes in the van, Chris felt the looks the elder Winchester would send his way, the disapproval condescending in waves. But he didn't say anything. Chris was about to snap at the hunger when:_

"_Your daughter. She's, what, eight?" John said finally._

"_Allison turned nine last month."_

"_And she knows nothing about—" he waved an arm about the van, "all this._

_Chris shook his head. "There hasn't been a good time to tell her."_

_John fell silent, listening to the quickening breaths of hunters flooded with adrenaline and gravel kicking up under the van. "Dean. He was already helping me plan hunts by the time he was her age."_

_Chris bit back the reply of 'and look how he's turned out. A perfect soldier.'_

~•~

_From what he'd seen, there were little to none injuries. They'd gone straight for the alpha, who had been turning people needlessly and carelessly and ripping apart anyone who was in his way. Most of the pack present were adults, and they made no hesitation to killing, or rather trying to. Their deaths couldn't be avoided, but the youngest member, who looked to be no older than eighteen, surrendered in the end._

_Chris was happy they hadn't had to kill them, envisioning only what they would have looked like when they were Allison's age, but a few others were less so._

_There had been one prominent injury: Dean had been slashed, not fatally, but it was deep and long. The youngest of the omegas had leapt out, gouging his arm violently and forcing the need for stitches._

_John tore his way to where his son was on the grass. The kid was lying on his back, clutching his bleeding limb with a pained grimace, refusing to show anything more than the pain. The wolf was hovering a few feet away and suspected nothing more from the hunters._

_Without warning, John Winchester fired on the youngest wolf, and the boy fell, dead, on the grass. Chris was the only one who reacted in outrage, besides Dean who was in too much pain to really do anything from his place on the ground. He struck back at the Winchester. His gun was trained on the hunter, but his father's order brought it down._

"_Chris,—"_

"_He just murdered the kid. The code—"_

"_What code?" John Winchester hissed. "He's a werewolf. I did what I came to do, what you should have done already."_

"_We don't harm minors."_

_Gerard placed a calming hand on Chris's shoulder. The older man regarded John calculatingly, like he was an interesting specimen under a microscope. "That's enough, Chris. He's just protecting his son. What would you do if that had been Allison?"_

"Dad?"

Chris spun on his heels. He had no idea how long he'd been standing in the middle of his office, one hand plastered to the mahogany desk, completely in the dark. Allison, her short hair loosely framing her face, stood silhouetted by the hallway's light. She hugged her arms close to her body, her knives glinting at her hip.

_I would kill whatever tried to harm her._

~•~

**6:30 p.m.**

To say it was awkward would be an understatement. Hold a gun to someone's head—even though that person isn't even there—and the others seem to think you will do it again. Melissa McCall was surprisingly protective, despite being the one to have invited the two hunters over for dinner, which was as promised. Dishes of Chinese food littered the marble top, and people casually piled their plates and fumbled for a seat at the crowded table.

Dean knew almost everyone there. After being introduced to Ms. Melissa McCall, the Sheriff made himself known, as well as a young strawberry blonde who seemed somewhat out of place in the whole situation. The other boy, Isaac, had dropped out of the dinner before it even started and had moved onto someone else's company.

Sam smiled easily during the first few awkward minutes. He answered everything vaguely and politely, but Dean sat broodingly with his dumplings and chow mein. He never really fit in with the whole polite dinner society, but he grinned and bared it.

The first half of the dinner the conversation remained on the topic of the weather or the type of car the Winchesters owned and how they cared for it, and then, after the first course had been devoured and the second was dished out, things got more serious.

"So, how did you boys get into this…business?" Ms. McCall asked.

Dean forced his enormous bite down his throat and answered while stuffing in another mouthful. "Family business. Our dad got us into it."

"Our mother was killed when we were children."

The rest of the table exchanged glances, sorry for the intrusion.

"What about you? How did you get involved in everything non-normal?" Even before he asked the question, he saw the weariness grow out of nowhere. First it was Sam, the brooding eyes that flashed a silent warning to how the others would answer the inquiry.

"We found this body in the woods—"

"It was ripped in half—"

"There was this crazy witch with a grudge—"

"Chess."

But then it came swiftly and without warning. One moment they were trying to explain, and failing to hide the obvious secret of _something_, how they knew about the paranormal and then Sam was gasping on the floor. He clutched his head in his fists, tufting his already messy hair; his eyes clenched shut in unbearable pain. Baring his teeth, Sam groaned and rocked forward on his knees till his forehead was barely off the ground.

Dean was by his side within a second of the first groan. His hands rested on his little brother's shoulders and shook him gently, trying to get him to look up and let go of his head. "Sammy!" Dean insisted. Distantly, he heard the others gather around him, Melissa McCall dropping to her knees as well—something about her being a nurse floating to the back of Dean's mind.

"Sammy, come on, what's wrong?" The question was moot Dean knew. He knew what was wrong, knew there was nothing that he could do till it was over, but the older, protective brother in him couldn't just let him sit by and watch Sam moan in pain.

But his brother in pain was not all that was happening. Among the shuffling of people standing about him and Sam, there was one who was not anywhere close to the two on the ground. Lydia was slowly backing away, her arms rigidly by her side and her eyes wide. Her painted lips were spreading wider and farther apart as whines and whispers crawled up her throat until she finally screamed.

* * *

**For the first half of the chapter, I did mean to spell Stiles as Styles because Dean doesn't really know the context of the whole Stiles nickname thing.**

**Sorry for dropping off the grid for a few months, but Senior year…thesis papers…finals…college applications…much more important than updating my stories I'm sad to say**


	6. Chapter 6

**6:54 p.m.**

The tickling had begun in the back of her throat right before Melissa asked about the brothers' introduction to the paranormal world. It was a slight sensation, a precursor to what she knew was to come. Then there was this thumping. A rhythmic clap that started as just an echo of a sound.

"We found this body in the woods—"

It was a strong as a physical tap, and she searched around slightly to find the source, trying not to draw any attention to herself.

"It was ripped in half—"

It was almost as if a person was banging a drum now, and he was stepping closer and closer with each beat.

"There was this crazy witch with a grudge—"

It was too loud now, a thunder clap inside her head.

"Chess."

Lydia stood just as Sam collapsed.

"Sammy, come on, what's wrong?"

She started backing away, staring at the man groaning on the floor, listening to the heartbeat rapidly increasing in speed and intensity as the pain in Sam's head climbed. Stiles, ever present Stiles, followed her movements, mouthing words to her. She shook her head and wouldn't answer. She didn't think she could even if she tried. Because she wasn't in the McCalls' home anymore, she wasn't even sure she was in Beacon Hills.

It was not like a dream, where the events always seemed scrambled and uncoordinated, aloof, but the scene before her was strong and solid, no mistaking it for a nightmare. Lydia was in a cemetery, obvious by the amount of grave markers and the few mausoleums, but it looked ancient, too old for the one by Beacon Hills.

Dawn was just breaking behind a sepulcher, shadowing its name carved into the stained marble. Lydia scrambled away from the abyss-like tomb, tripping over the patched, decaying grass, and rouged the thin fabric covering her knees. She glanced up and a stone angel wept above her head. Glorious wings shadowed her from the dawn's light, its hands lamenting over what was to come.

And right before her Sam hurtled through the air and onto his back. He groaned, momentarily frozen as he tried to regain his lost breath. Suddenly, something took hold of his arms and forced them to his sides. Sam tried to move. He tried to fight the grip preventing him from using his arms, but the ghost appeared. The horrific beauty flickered and vanished like an old film, her golden hair blew in a nonexistent wind, and her gown fell perfectly despite crouching over a struggling form. Her emotionless, stony face was frozen, and she bent down to meet Sam's face and hissed ferally.

Lydia felt as if she were frozen, although she had full control of her movement.

The ghost leaned away from her victim…then thrust her hands deep into his chest.

~•~

Stiles was confused. They had been in the middle of explaining their involvement without actually saying how their connected with the paranormal—because for some reason Sam didn't want his brother knowing about the whole werewolf deal. He supposed he also wouldn't want Dean to know about Lydia being a banshee either—and Sam just collapsed, grabbing at his head like it was about to explode.

Dean was at his side in a minute, treating it like that sort of thing happens weekly. Everyone else at the dinner party did things similarly. Stiles could see Scott debating whether he should take some of Sam's pain with his werewolf touch, Melissa trying to diagnose Sam's condition, and his dad just sort of standing to the side not really sure what to do.

Stiles shared his conundrum. His curiosity told him to crowd the man on the floor and figure out what paranormal or normal thing was causing this, but his feelings for Lydia outweighed his ADHD and compulsive need to know what was happening. She was clawing her way away from Sam Winchester, her gaze fixed on his form, but her hands were covering her ears violently. And she screamed.

Everyone in the room clasped their hands over their ears, except for Stiles. He lunged for Lydia, who collapsed moments after opening her mouth to scream. He caught her, just before she hit her head on the stone counter behind her. Stiles exchanged glances with Scott. Nothing in their lives would ever be normal, Stiles decided.

Sam began to ease up on the floor, falling back from his crouch to lean against the chair behind him. His brother inched closer, wanting to whisper into his ear, but Melissa stopped them before they could have a private word.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded, after standing up to check on Lydia.

The girl was still unconscious and weighing heavily in Stiles's arms. It wasn't that he was weak or that she was too big, but Stiles never realized how heavy humans actually were. He half carried, half towed her over to the couch and laid her down. Her eyes slowly flittered open.

"It's nothing," Dean muttered. His gaze was still locked on his baby brother.

Sam obviously didn't think it was nothing. His eyes were wide and his hands were shaking so unsubtly that Stiles could see the tremors from the adjoining room. Sam rubbed his head, although Stiles doubted his head still hurt judging on how fast he came out of the comatose state.

"Like hell that was nothing," Melissa snapped. "Lydia?" Ms. McCall ran her hand across the girl's forehead, brushing away a loose strand of hair.

"What did you see?" Stiles asked softly, noticing how both Winchester brothers started at the question before realizing the teen was addressing Lydia.

Lydia didn't reply. She was frozen and staring at Sam.

"Lydia?" Stiles crouched in front of her, breaking the connection. "Who is it?"

"Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" Dean demanded. "What's with the banshee scream?"

"Maybe 'cause she is a banshee?" Stiles snapped back.

"Sam," Lydia whispered.

"Dean," Sam muttered. He clambered to his feet, only swaying slightly for a moment. He seemed to have regained his strength and control. His brother gripped his arm nonetheless, probably more to ensure himself than to stop the kid from keeling over suddenly. "I saw her. The ghost."

"The demon—"

"She killed—"

"—you only get them when the Demon's involved."

As Sam tried to explain his headache, Stiles and Lydia were having the same problematic simultaneous conversation. Stiles and Melissa contended with each other to talk with the girl. Melissa was making sure she was okay while Stiles, who was also concerned with her wellbeing, was asking about who was going to die.

"Did you hear—"

"Stiles, let her breathe—"

"Sam—"

"ENOUGH!"

Everyone turned to Scott. Even the brothers fell silent, but as soon as Dean turned to Scott, he swore, tripping slightly on a dinning chair. Stiles sighed. _Guess the cats out of the bag_, he mused after seeing Scott's glowing red alpha eyes. _Or wolf for that matter_. Luckily Sam caught his brother before weapons were drawn. Unluckily, Dean still reacted instinctually, against the teen wolf.

"He's a werewolf!"

"Dean, stop, I know—"

"You know? He's a werewolf, we're hunters, Sam!"

At that statement, Melissa bristled, placing herself closer to her son. Dean tried again to reach for whatever weapon he had in his pocket, but Sam knocked his brother back.

"Stop, Dean!"

"Werewolves, Sam. You know what Dad told us—"

"—he told you to kill me; you really think going by his word right now is your best argument?"

Dean immediately stopped fighting, and it had the same effect on the others in the room.

"Sam…"

"The Demon's the worst of our worries right now," Sam sighed cryptically.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles ventured.

"Sam." Lydia whispered.

"I saw the ghost kill me, Dean."

It seemed that whatever anger or hostility Dean may have held against the werewolf in the room, the protective-brother reaction outweighed the animosity. All of his brain power looked to be focused on Sam.

It should have been the revelation that the ghost killed Sam, or maybe the declaration that the Winchester father had some weird murder pact between his sons, but the aspect that Sam had _seen_ the act happen was all that resonated through Stiles's mind. "You saw it? Are you a Banshee too? Or a man-banshee," he turned to Scott, "can guys even be banshees?"

"How should I know?"

"What does a wailing spirit have anything to do with this?" Sam questioned, but the others waved him off, more focused on the fact that he saw his own death.

"How is that possible?" Melissa demanded. "Do you see everyone's death before it happens?"

Sam shook his head. Dean tried to stop his brother from revealing anything. He grabbed the younger's upper arm and shook his head, whispering reasons Stiles couldn't quite catch—he'd have to ask Scott later because Dean didn't exactly seem to be in a sharing mood. Sam, on the other hand, clenched his jaw stubbornly.

"I get these visions. Premonitions, but they're not just of anyone—"

"Sam…"

"—I've never had one about myself before though."

Before any more questions could be asked, as there were plenty, the Sheriff's phone rang. He sighed and dug it out of his pocket. "Work," he mumbled and excused himself. The others in the room vaguely watched Stilinski disappear, but quickly the minds flitted back to the death in hand.

"You saw it too?" Sam asked, his attention focused on Lydia.

She nodded.

"And that's never happened before?"

She shook her head. "I hear voices. Sounds. Sometimes it's just something I do over and over again."

Dean snorted sardonically but shut up when Sam knocked his arm.

"It's all jumbled, most of the time I don't know what's happening. It's hard to tell what only I hear and see and what others can too, but when I scream, it sort of straightens out. Becomes clear. This was the first time I _saw_ it happen though."

"I get these headaches, then these flashes of images. Sometimes we get there in time to stop it."

"And the other times?" Melissa's voice was small, but strong, like she had something to protect. "How do you choose who you see?"

Sam didn't reply, and it seemed Lydia knew that, somehow. She straightened up from the couch and fixed her rumpled skirt and her braid. "The ghost was in a graveyard, but it wasn't the one in Beacon Hills."

"Where was it?"

Lydia glared at Stiles coldly. It was kind of a reminder of freshman year, when the only time she regarded him was when she was pointing out something unbelievably obvious. She grinned evilly, or that sort of grin she used for Jackson's idiotic comments, and replied, "Well if I knew that, then I would have said so. It was a cemetery with old head stones and mausoleums and sepulchers."

"Anything else?" Dean demanded roughly.

"I—"

"We have a problem." Sheriff Stilinski declared upon his reentry into the living room. Stiles could have groaned, and in fact, he thought he might have. His mind was whirring and there was too many thoughts going through his head to really remember what his body was physically doing. Really, the only distinguishable thought was that he needed to find his Adderall and take a couple days' worth of doses.

"I think Karen Archer is the ghost…or has the ghost…or whatever." He glanced at the ghost hunters, hoping for some kind of input, but they stared back blankly, most likely because they were still reeling from the action packed half hour.

"She's a deputy at my station. Parish called saying she left a few minutes ago acting out of character."

"So she left her shift early. What's so significant about that?" Dean retorted gruffly.

"she had been the one working with the evidence lockup."

"I thought you said you tested the inventory and didn't find anything?" Sam leaned against the dining table.

"I didn't," agreed the Sheriff, "but when I was scanning everything, she was acting…weird. I tried asking her if she had seen anything out of the ordinary, and she just smiled, silently, and fairly maniacally. Now apparently, she's taken off half an hour early without a word."

Stiles shrugged, and snatched his jacket from the wall hook. With Scott was following right behind, both Sam and Melissa stared at them questioningly. "In Beacon Hills, when someone is acting 'weird' that generally means they're some kind of psycho killer. In this case, possessed by a psycho killer's ghost," explained Stiles. His ADHD mind wandered over to the idea that he should be an actor if he could say that without laughing out loud.

Dean grudgingly agreed. "In our line of work, that almost always means there's a supernatural reason behind it."

~•~

**7:42 p.m.**

It had taken a lot of convincing many people before they managed to leave the McCall house. Dean hadn't wanted to go anywhere with a werewolf, Melissa hadn't wanted any hunter who had been ready to kill a werewolf in her own house near her son nor did she want to be left behind while the kids went to go fight a killer ghost, and the Sheriff did not want under any circumstances to be left behind while his only reminder of his wife and vulnerable son faced a psychotic Casper.

Sam had managed to persuade his brother, using the ever convincing argument of 'they've had plenty of times to kill me, and I'm perfectly fine,' which didn't do much for Dean's anger. He finally allowed the teens to come when they mentioned that a man could be dying at the moment. Melissa and the sheriff were much harder to satisfy, but the alpha didn't leave much up to discussion.

Lydia was the only one who hadn't tried to go with the ghost hunters, saying she didn't do sodium.

When they finally arrived at the Archer residence, curtesy of the Sheriff department records, Sam, Dean, Scott and Stiles hesitated outside on the lawn. A black camry pulled up beside them, and two figures hopped out, joining the small party.

"How'd you know where we are?" demanded Stiles. "Did you, like, sniff out Scott's trail?"

Isaac glared evenly at his friend and turned to Scott without a word.

"I texted him," Scott explained, though he finished through a clenched jaw, "but I didn't think he'd bring Allison."

Allison grinned smugly, shifting her bow from one hand to the next as she adjusted the leather gloves on her fingers. "He tried leaving without me." She flexed the bow. "It didn't work."

"Like that won't work on the ghost," Dean added, more annoyed as the minutes ticked by. His eyes roved from Scott to Isaac, finishing around the other two teens. "Are you all werewolves, or some other kind of—paranormal?"

"She's a hunter. He's a werewolf. I'm just the quirky friend who supplies the much needed comic relief," Stiles offered. "And I've got a bat." To prove his point, he lofted the aluminum rod.

"Great," the Winchester groaned.

Scott glared at the people surrounding him. He was trying to focus his hearing, but with each person talking and getting more annoyed with one another, it was becoming more difficult to do. It also didn't help the full moon was coming up, and although he had perfected handling the moon's draw, he still grew more irritable this time of the month. Inside the house, Scott could hear two heart beats. Strangely, only one sounded normal, but he guessed that might prove what they had come there to do. The husband's heart—he assumed it was the husband—was at rest, a slow beat that was beginning to rise, but Karen Archer's was slow.

It pulsed once every ten seconds, and even then it sounded like an enormous drum about to fracture. Then he heard a crash and one really messed up laugh.

"What—what are you doing? Karen?" Mr. Archer pleaded. He was answered by another laugh.

Both Scott and Isaac burst into the house without telling the others what was happening, though judging by the fact they followed immediately after, they could guess Karen was, in fact, possessed.

Romantic candles and rose pedals littered the floor and book shelves. Beautiful china adorned the dining room table, which was directly to the right of the front door. The house lights were dim, and flickering, and a thin, hazy smoke filled with perfume hovered in the front hall. Pictures smiled from the wall, and a police belt hung carelessly from the coat hooks.

The average home was delightful, if it weren't for the menacing cold that had settled in from the dining room. That and the man who flew through the air from the kitchen and collided with a glass table in the opposite room to the left of the front door. Mr. Archer groaned but didn't move any further. Scott pushed past Isaac and reached the man before multiple carving knives embedded themselves in the wooden floor.

The man was completely unconscious and limp. He was also heavy but nothing compared to Scott's strength. He awkwardly dragged him against the wall of the room, which he guessed was some sort of entertainment room, and searched for where the knives had come from. Isaac rushed to his alpha's side and took up the unconscious man's other side.

"Get him out of here," Dean ordered.

He and Sam held their various guns aloft and ready, scoping the room immediately. Scott and Isaac complied, though they only managed to drop the husband on the front porch when some_thing_ snatched and threw them back into the house, thankfully missing the human who, without the support of the teenagers, collapsed onto the porch. Both Scott and Isaac smashed into a wall of the front hall, and bodily fell into a heap at the base.

Karen Archer, in the glory of a magnificent dress, made her location known by hurling a bloody scream of fury. The doors and windows to the house locked shut in one enormous bang. Allison raised her bow, an arrow notched, but Stiles grabbed her hand.

"No! She's possessed remember?"

Allison swore. A dining chair soared through the air and smashed to pieces over their heads, and Allison tackled Stiles to the ground.

"What do we do?" she cried as more furniture began to fly around the house. Karen Archer cackled in joy and conducted the invisible orchestra to attack the intruders. She struck out with one hand and an entire book case tore across the room to nearly crush Sam.

"Keep her busy," he yelled, mainly to Dean as he was sure his brother could handle the ghost's wrath. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus__, o__mnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii_ —" he dodged flying knives and ducked behind a sofa. "_O__mnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te_—_ cessa decipere humanas creaturas__—_"

Karen Archer screamed.

Before her attention had been split between the six mortals in her home, but after the beginning of the exorcism began to affect her power, her glowing eyes fell on the cachet Sam had hidden himself in. Whatever object she had been controlling froze and altered course.

"Sam!"

Dean tackled his baby brother to the floor, narrowly missing a letter opener to the head, and used the momentum to keep rolling. The Winchester dodged, but there was only so much they could do. Books, Plates, and chairs crashed into them, and finally, Dean was sent through a wall.

"_E__isque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare__. __Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos__!_" Sam finished, yelling despite gasping for breath.

Archer screamed one last time before she collapsed heavily to the ground. Anything floating in the air followed her graceful downfall. Isaac stepped towards the body cautiously.

"Is—she dead?"

Dean pushed to his feet, rolling out his back with a grimace. He met Sam, clapping his brother on the back, and they too circled the deputy. Allison stood next to Scott and Stiles.

"Should have paid more attention in Latin class," mumbled Stiles.

"She's fine." Scott affirmed. "Just unconscious."

Allison examined the body closer. Something that glittered from around her neck.

"What about the ghost—?" Stiles began.

A luminescent white exploded from the unconscious woman, a tangible wave that forced each person in the vicinity into the air. Dean slammed back into a wall, this time accompanied by his brother and Isaac. Scott was broke through the front door, allowing a cold breeze to clear the smoke-filled house. Both Allison and Stiles landed on their backs in the family room.

A flickering, flashing form rose from the woman on the floor. The golden hair remained still immaculate and curled, the golden dress stained in blood, and a stone expression painting the apparitions face. It didn't remain so for long, however. Her eyes flashed permanently to black beads, her nose sharpening and her nails shifting to daggers, and she hissed.

The tornado of items and furniture began again, only this time, they had a new strategy.

Dean scrambled over to where his sawed-off shotgun had fallen, aimed, and fired. Unfortunately, by chance, a broken shaft of a table had floated into the buckshot's path. The message, however, was passed. Sam retrieved his lost gun and began firing, and Allison notched an arrow and let it loose. Out of all the projectiles, the arrow was the only to hit. A thin cicatrix sliced across the ghost's face, and its figure vanished for a few moments.

Allison grinned at Dean, who was staring in shock at her bow. "Iron-tipped arrows." She overcame her pride quickly, however, and fell to her knees before Karen Archer. Her hands grappled with the clasp at the deputy's neck, and as she did so, the ghost reappeared. It screamed its unnatural scream, but another load of buckshot sent it to whatever dimension ghosts belonged.

Loosing the necklace, she showed it to Dean. "Could this work as a tether?"

"Maybe," Dean began, but Sam snatched it out of Allison's grip.

He rolled it over in his hands and ended on the locket at the base of the pearls. He caught at the clasp and tugged at it until, finally, the metal opened. He grimaced and closed the casing. "Locks of hair. Definitely the tether—"

Allison managed to snag the necklace before Sam was knocked out of the way. She had seen the ominous glow collecting right before and had jumped to the right conclusion. Without glancing back, and hearing many thumps, she dove out of the house, through the broken front door. Scott met her half way, but when he saw what she was carrying, he turned to run with her, fetching what was needed out of the jeep.

Allison threw the locket down and rushed to ignite the lighter while Scott dowsed the hell out of the thing with gasoline. One spark was all it took to hear the banshee scream of the ghost.

~•~

**8:40 p.m.**

Allison had grown accustomed to her father's yelling, his judgment and disapproval although she was doing exactly what he had done at her age. He may be reluctant to bring her into the hunting life, but he also couldn't separate his ingrained hunter's drive. He treated her as a hunter and scolded her like one when she disobeyed. Disobeyed as in sneaking out at night to meet up with Scott to take down a murderous ghost.

"I told you to stay away from this, Allison." Chris Argent was in a particularly thunderous mood after his daughter had not even bothered sneaking back in. She had simply unlocked the front door and strolled inside.

"The thing was killing people. That's what hunters do: stop _things_ from _killing_ innocent victims," she retaliated, mindlessly tossing her bow on the divan in the apartment. "_Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent_."

Argent had to bite his tongue from striking back in a similarly venomous manner. He almost regretted teaching her the family adage. Almost. Pride flickered past the wall of fear and anger, but he didn't let it show. Allison, however, didn't notice his inner clash of feelings and continued on her angry diatribe.

"Besides, we had it handled. That other hunter knew exactly what he was doing—"

"What other hunter?"

Allison looked at her father straight in the eyes. "Dean Winchester. Dad, he's—"

This time the doorbell had interrupted Allison mid-speech. Her father raised an eyebrow at Allison in a silent question. _Are you expecting anyone?_ And at her reply, both hunters snatched up a means of defense, Allison her previously abandoned bow and Chris Argent his Walther PK. They approached the door, and Argent gazed through the eye glass before swinging open the door.

There on the threshold was a black man in his late thirties. He was moderately dressed, a bulge in his jacket from where his gun pressed against the canvas, and a look in his eyes glowed with a furious cupidity that gave a sense of unease in both Argents. He held out both his arms to show he was unarmed, at least he wasn't holding any weapon, and finally offered his right hand diplomatically.

When he spoke, he sounded similar to a snake, something that planned moves ahead all the while looking behind. "We spoke on the phone a while ago. I'm Gordon Walker, and I believe we have similar goals in mind."

~•~

Sam's head dropped to his chest, his eyes following the downwards movement. Scarlet was blossoming from his chest like wildfire, and the pain was barely there. He was sure it was supposed to hurt. He'd been shot before. He knew it hurt, so why didn't this time.

His feet could no longer support his weight and he rocked to his knees. His brother was shouting from so far away, but Dean had been at his side. Right beside Scott and the other werewolf. Another bang and Sam felt another slight tug, this time in his shoulder. The pain was ebbing more and more, and Sam was scared. He was off-balance again, and he fell back, his knees sliding out in front of him.

Finally, Sam's mind was able to put everything together, and the numbness drove him to terror. But no amount of terror could make him move. A taunting face appeared above him, and he kneeled beside Sam's head.

"See what happens when you choose the wrong side, Sammy?"

Sam wanted to say 'screw you, it's Sam,' but he couldn't even get his jaw to open. The last movement he could make consciously was to turn his eyes to the sight of a boy on the ground, as unmoving as Sam.

"—ammy?"

Sam groaned.

"Sammy, you with me?"

Dean; that was Dean's voice. Sam opened his eyes, and immediately clasped his arm over them. The living room light was far beyond too bright, but the more disconcerting fact was that Sam didn't remember getting back to the living room with functioning lights. He was pretty sure that the Archers' lights were smashed by flying knives and book cases, but now he was lying on the floor of the McCall house.

He groaned, but not out of pain. That was the second time in a few hours where Sam found himself lying on the floor of someone's house, that someone who he had only just met.

"You had another vision," Dean offered, lifting his brother up from the ground. Sam, thankfully, stood without listing or falling over.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"I thought we took care of the ghost. Burned its sorry ass."

Just then, Sam remembered what he had seen. "Gordon, he's here."

"Gordon?"

"He shot me!" Sam brought his hands to his chest and searched for the future bullet wounds, but they came away clear of any red. He had been in the cemetery again, but it was different. The others had been there, Dean and the werewolves, and…

"I thought the ghost kills you," Dean questioned skeptically.

"Stiles," Lydia said.

Stiles flushed when everyone turned to him.

"Stiles kills Sam?"

"No," Lydia whispered. "The ghost killed Stiles."

**Not that good at writing action sequences, but I hope it wasn't too bad—but voila le nouveau chapitre**

**So I'll try to update again soon, and until then, enjoy and hopefully comment**


	7. Chapter 7

**8:55 p.m.**

That was news to Stiles. He remained frozen in the same position, same expression of pursed lips and neck extended and tilted. It took the rest of the people in the room to acknowledge the new information for Stiles to move from his place by the couch.

"What do you mean the ghost kills me?" Stiles's eyes bounced back and forth between Sam and Lydia.

"No, what do you mean Gordon's _here_?" Dean demanded. His gaze was glued to his little brother, and Stiles understood his protective urge, though he was a little miffed that he couldn't stay the priority for at least five minutes after it was revealed he was going to get killed by a supposedly destroyed ghost.

"Where is he?" Dean continued.

Sam shrugged helplessly.

"Can we get back to the point where I'm supposed to _die_?"

Scott appeared next to Stiles, probably for support, but Stiles felt perfectly able to stand by himself. In fact, he wasn't feeling anywhere close to needing support. He wanted to find the ghost and whatever it was using to keep it in Beacon Hills, and he wanted to burn it to ashes. Not only that, he was going to burn it to ashes, none of that Allison lighting the thing up with lighter fluid in the street.

"I have a strictly no dying rule," Stiles continued. He could see the gears turning in the Winchesters' heads, and he didn't like how they seemed perfectly nonchalant with the prospect of Stiles being skewered in the chest by a phantom chick. "Any ideas?"

"Stop, drop, and roll," Dean growled. "We need to focus on Gordon. What else do you remember about him?"

"Okay, seriously? Like two seconds. That's all I'm asking for," snapped Stiles. "Ever since you came here, all you've cared about is finding Sam and hitting him—and that's all well and good—but there are other people, two of them have died, and I'm apparently next!" Stiles stepped right in front of Dean, forcing the hunter to look straight at him and nowhere else. He was sick of always being the expendable one, because he was not expendable. Without him, Scott wouldn't have figured out his furry development, they wouldn't have discovered the pattern to the _darach_'s killings, and they certainly wouldn't have thought a ghost had moved to Beacon Hills.

"I have no doubt this Gordon guy is paramount to whatever it is you guys actually live in, but right now, this ghost is what you need to think about. _Comprende_?"

Dean was lost for words. Everyone in the room could see the hunter, normally so quick-witted, without one thing to say. Sam was like-wise speechless, though his glance moved from Stiles to Dean worriedly. He had no way of knowing how his brother would react, simply because he had never seen Dean so shocked to be knocked into his place. He had deserved it wholeheartedly in Sam's opinion; for one reason, Dean's protective nature was the entirety of why Sam had snuck out that night.

For what seemed like minutes, but was actually a few seconds, silences enclosed the room. Finally Scott stepped forward and rested a hand on Stiles's shoulder. His friend was still fuming, but at least he had enough control to swallow any more outbreaks.

"What do you normally do in this situation?" the alpha asked.

"Normally?" Sam sighed. "Normally, the ghost only has one tie, and burning it does the trick. I have no idea what to do now."

"I need a beer," stated Dean, first time he moved since getting a talking to from Stiles.

"Maybe the next step is finding out who the ghost is," continued Sam.

Dean returned, already halfway through his Heineken. "The police could have records of a man or a woman killing their spouse."

"Already tried that," Scott responded blankly to the hunter.

Stiles ran a hand down his face. "Police have nothing related to some lady murdering her husband in the town's history. Which is surprising seeing as this is Beacon Hills we're talking about. There's generally at least one of every kind of atrocious murder."

"It could have been too long ago for electronic records. And that means we have nothing."

Dean paused. He gulped down the last of his beer, trying to recollect all the details of whatever it was he had remembered. Sam noticed his brother's expression and nudged his arm, bringing the older Winchester back to the present.

"You good?"

"Yeah—yeah, I just remembered this case me and Dad worked on when you were at Stanford.—"

"You went to Stanford?" Stiles asked, surprised.

"Yeah, I was pre-law."

"Did you take the LSATs? How'd you do?"

Sam glanced down embarrassedly before answering, "172."

Dean looked back and forth between the Sam and Stiles. "What, is that good?"

"Scary good," responded Stiles.

"Can we get back to the point, Dean?" Sam pressed. Dean looked like he wanted to protest, to ask why Sam never told him about the LSATs and his brilliant score, but he didn't. He just nodded and continued his retelling of the past case.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat. "Anyways, there was this woman, mean old hag according to her neighbors. Apparently as a kid, Margaret Hamilton liked to target this little boy, and she took it too far. Kid committed suicide, but Margaret never changed, even in death."

"What does this have to do with us?" Scott asked.

"The point is little Maggie was from Charleston. The case we picked up was in Beaufort. Turns out, this creepy ass doll was the tether. After old woman Maggie died, her doll was sold in a garage sale, and the first kid that got possessed took it home with her. Low and behold she killed a boy she teased on a normal basis, but the real kicker is she ditched the doll at a friend's house. Next day, the girl got friendly with daddy's power saw." Dean snatched a state map from the book case and riffled through it till he came across Beacon Hills county and any town near it. "The ghost could have travelled from some other town to this one." He circled every cemetery and burial place on the map with a red sharpie and spun it so the rest of the room could see.

"And the ghost is possessing those with similar traits," Sam finished the thought. He hovered over the map and chewed on his lower lip. "The question is: what's the same with all these women?"

"Fidelity," Stiles muttered.

Sam and Dean glanced over at the teenager. He too was staring intently at the map, going over each graveyard within a certain radius. Just because he was Stiles, he had been to a fair amount of those places and was trying to place which ones were close enough to what Lydia and Sam had described. At the same time he was running through all the possible connections the women shared, and the one crimson string was the missing ring finger and cheating husband.

When Stiles looked up at Sam, Dean, and Scott, they all were watching him questioningly. "What?" he asked. "Remember Kyle's body? He was all carved up: 'cheating bastard,' 'unfaithful,' and a few others that aren't suitable for younger audiences."

Sam snatched the red sharpie from Dean's hand and cordoned off the possible town graveyards into thirds. Stiles knew immediately what the hunter was going to propose, and that was exactly what he would have done in normal, Beacon Hills situations; this case, however, was not their 'normal' situation. They were literally living in a horror movie rather than a retelling of _Wolfman_, and splitting up was classic error number three.

"Alright, Stiles, you and Scott take this—"

"I'm sorry, but are you about to suggest we 'split up?'" Stiles drawled, "cause in every scary movie, the normal guy,"—Stiles pointed to himself with both thumbs—"is always the first to die. Horribly and bloody, and screaming. Scott's fine, supernatural bad asses never get killed. How else could they make a sequel?"

"Stiles, relax," grinned Sam. "I'll be going with you."

Dean's head shot up, and he narrowed his eyes at his brother. Clearly, they hadn't discussed Sam going with the alpha and it wasn't their usual modus operandi. Sam continued as if the older Winchester hadn't moved.

"I'll go with you and Scott. Dean will go with the sheriff and Isaac, and Allison will go with her father. We go to every location, find the ghost soon as possible, and whoever finds the right place will wait for the others to arrive."

"What about Lydia?"

In answer, she dropped a stack of white paper on the already heavily occupied kitchen table, in her hand a collection of number two pencils. She dropped into a dining room chair and stared blankly at one sheet of paper. Stiles tried to connect this passive aggressive glare—the kind of look that would burn any flammable and non-flammable material—with her banshee, far away stare, but they were not one and the same. It was the look she got when she tried to force the psychic feeling.

"I think Stiles should wait here," Dean suggested, only looking at his brother and not even considering the others in the room. "I mean he is supposedly going to be shish-kabobbed by a not-so-dead dead chick."

"Whoa, whoa, you're not leaving me behind—"

"Stiles, I think maybe he has a point…"

"Look, kid, you just gave me the tanning only Ellen is really capable of, and now you want to go charging into what you were criticizing me for?"

His hazel brown eyes burned dangerously and protectively. There was no way he was going to sit this out, even if both the banshee and whatever the hell Sam was saw him die. Stiles didn't even have to speak, for Dean to just nod his acceptance.

~•~

**9:23 p.m.**

Allison had no desire to be in the same room with that man any longer than she had to. She couldn't place the feeling, but something about him put her off—a sort of hidden, volatile nature he kept hidden under his ambiguous statements. Gordon had invited himself in after his initial introduction, and her father had allowed him, although Allison had no doubt Chris Argent was more in command than Gordon Walker would ever be.

Her father, like Allison herself, seemed to immediately dislike the guy. His steel grey eyes followed the other hunter meticulously. Whatever replies he made was cut short and succinct, and as much as he tried to hide it, Argent's fists clenched and released inside his jacket pockets.

Gordon took the liberty to show himself into the living room of the Argent apartment, and instead of following to make sure he didn't try anything, Argent grabbed his daughter by the arm and kept an eye down the hall for Walker. He paused long enough to make sure he wouldn't be overheard.

"Don't say anything about the Winchesters. Don't even mention them. Not even Scott or the others."

Allison had already figured that, but she nodded all the same. Not wanting to leave _Gordon Walker _alone with everything the Argent family had amassed over the centuries, both the father and the daughter slipped in behind the man, who was lounging on the couch, his mud-caked brogans staining the furnished wood. He had helped himself to the hard liquor from the crystal decanter on the book shelf, and he was swirling and inspecting its contents. Gordon didn't even glance up when the Argents entered.

"For such a small town, there does seem to be a lot of unfortunate events." It was something about how he spoke. His voice was low and slow as if to make sure whoever he was addressing would not be mistaken to what he said. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"We've had some problems, but I've dealt with them."

"By yourself?" Gordon sipped his drink and smirked slightly.

Argent didn't reply in words, simply fixed his glare at the other hunter and nodded. Allison hinged herself against the bookshelves and crossed her arms. She didn't even try to be friendly. Whenever a 'friend' stop by once in a while to visit her dad, she attempted to smile and play nice while learning the inner workings of hunters, but inwardly she was terrified they might read between the lines of Beacon Hills Times.*

"Some of those reports are quite the tales. The local sheriff and nurse taken by a teacher gone psycho, rouge mountain lions attacking the local high school, more local kids getting wrapped up in strange murders. Now a bunch of serial murders are somehow unrelated."

"What do you want Gordon?"

The hunter drained the last of his glass and sighed contentedly at its imaginary contents. "As I mentioned on the phone, I believe we have similar interests: protecting this world from the beasts that live in it." Walker sauntered over to Chris Argent's desk and ran a finger over the smooth surface. His eyes roved over the papers scattered over the table, but he didn't find anything of interest to him.

"Seen Sam Winchester lately?"

Argent perched himself on the arm of one of the chairs in the room. "I've never met him, though I've heard the name. John mentioned he had a second son last time we worked together."

"Have you heard from the Winchesters lately?"

"No," Argent replied quietly. "But I heard John passed a few months ago."

"It's a pity about John. Damn good hunter. Dean has potential, if his baby brother didn't have such an influence on him."

Curiosity finally made its way past Chris Argent's walls, and Allison couldn't help but share the same reaction. She had been curious about the Winchester brothers and their secrets the moment her dad pulled a gun on the younger man. Gordon saw the power he held over the local hunters, and he relished in the suspense. It was painfully obvious that the Argents had lied, withheld, and blatantly ignored information about Sam and Dean Winchester, and now Gordon was ready to force them to turn against them and their charm.

"What do you have against Sam Winchester?" Allison spoke for the first time. Her father's gaze chastised her, but she ignored it. "Is it revenge or something?"

"That's not what this is. This isn't personal. I'm not a killer, miss. I'm a hunter. And Sammy Winchester's fair game. He's dangerous, and—"

Allison's phone prevents him from going any farther. She must have sat on it awkwardly at some point as the volume was at its maximum, and she fumbled with it enough before she could silence it. Scott's name flashed across the screen.

"It's Scott." She answered the phone while staring at the Argent's unwelcome guest, "hello?"

"We have a plan," Scott said without any form of greeting. "We need you and your dad to go to Marstonsville and check out the cemetery there. Lydia's going to text you a drawing of what we're looking for."

Allison's eyes moved to her father, leveling an even and meaningful glare in his direction. Taking the phone away from her ear so Scott could hear everything discussed in the Argents' living room, she turned to the two men watching her curiously. "Scott wants to get together to go over history notes. Stiles and Lydia are at his house for a study session."

Her eyes never left her father's face, knowing that he understood what she was talking about. He nodded. Gordon, however, did not believe her story. His eyes narrowed minutely, his body growing rigid, and he sat forward instead of lounging in the brown armchair.

"Right now isn't the best time…" Argent started.

"You said you wanted me to be normal. Studying for midterms with friends is normal."

"And sneaking out at night with friends is normal too?" Chris Argent continued the ploy, and carrying on a nonexistent conversation was good enough to hide the truth from Gordon Walker.

"It was one time, and the Marstonsville police were very understanding."

Her father nodded. "Try to be back at a reasonable hour."

Allison inclined her head and backed away. She didn't look at Gordon Walker, she didn't have to to see that he wasn't even close to believing their 'normal' routine. But Allison didn't care. Her friends needed her and her dad, but since he was busy entertaining their guest, she would have to be enough for the Beacon Hills pack.

~•~

**9:58 p.m.**

Because of Chris Argent's nonappearance, the pairs they had decided on no longer worked. Luckily, there were enough of the hunters and pack members that they could still split up to cover their bases. Sam and Dean were nevertheless disappointed that they were one less experienced hunter they had expected. Instead, they were stuck with a bunch of kids oddly used to fighting supernatural in a small, apple-pie-life town. Although the teens, two of them being super-powered and one being a hunter-in-training, could handle themselves fairly well, the Winchesters were more than anxious to bring them into a potential firefight. The sheriff, being relatively new to the whole ordeal, was a little less than helpful in regards to the paranormal, what with him carrying a simple regulation pistol.

"This isn't a good idea, Sammy," Dean growled for what seemed like the tenth time. "What with Gordon Walker—"

"Dean," Sam bit out, "enough, you know this is the only way to do things. We can't send a group of—" he stopped before he said the blasphemous word 'kids,' seeing the eyebrows raise in anticipation to tell him off, "—_teenagers_ without someone to _help_ them if things get hairy."

"Granted with what we're facing, we need things to get a little hairy. Or rather people to get a little hairy," Stiles quipped.

"Not helping, Stiles." Sam finished pulling his duffel bag stuffed full of iron and salted weapons and dropped it on the grass. The impala was parked on the lawn in front of the McCall house, and next to it the pale blue jeep smoldered slightly under the hood. "This is what we're doing, Dean. It's not like we haven't done this before."

Dean bit back whatever he was about to say and settled for popping the impala's trunk and removing the false bottom that kept any and all weapons hidden. All eyes not accustomed to the weapons cache were immediately drawn to the various daggers, sawed-off shotguns and pistols, and axes. Someone behind Dean whistled, and he bristled with pride. Something about proving to the bunch of experienced rookies pleased the older hunter, a little victory in the sea of unhappiness.

Sam and Dean alternated in handing each person a weapon. The sheriff was the only one who actually got a gun, one loaded with iron bullets, while the rest got daggers and salt packets. Sam and Dean held shotguns filled with salt rounds.

Sam nodded towards Scott and Stiles. "You ready?"

The alpha and his friend dipped their heads.

Dean did a similar check with Allison, Isaac, and the sheriff, then loaded his car with his party, giving his brother a quick glare before peeling away. Even five minutes after the black car had disappeared, they could still hear the distant rumbling of the engine, the screeching of the tires, and the blasting 80s rock music.

"Oh," Stiles muttered.

"What?" Scott asked.

"Now I get where the Led Zeppelin comes from."

~•~

**11:00 p.m.**

The graveyard of San Margetta was at the top of a hill, at the end of a long stretch of road. The town itself is miles away, so the only sign of civilization is in the form of an old white church that was surprising well-kept. The land around the cemetery was simple patches of sun-bleached grass mixed with what little vegetation a desert had to offer. There weren't any trees to obstruct the light of the stars and the moon, which was not even close to full.

A rackety, rotten fence ran the perimeter of the limited holy ground, the rusted gate left open and vulnerable to the wind occasionally coursing across the sand. Any old raven stone still fully intact were left faceless and nameless, sand, wind, and rain ebbing away all traces of the person it represented.

Farther away from the church, mausoleums were posted as sentinels. There were dozens, each individually separate from its neighbors while still sharing a common creepiness that only seemed to affect two out of the three waltzing through the cemetery. To add to the unnerving mien, the only actual source of light came from the flashlights the three carried, and the identifying factor they were looking for was a lamenting angel carved in stone.

Lydia had yet to email a picture of the angel and mausoleum, so Scott and Stiles were merely going off Sam's description of the place. They still checked their phones every few feet, ensuring they hadn't missed the photo. In such an old graveyard, there were plenty of statues and angels guarding their charges and very little to distinguish them.

"So how did you become an alpha without having to kill anyone?" Sam finally asked after an hour long car ride and minutes worth of awkward silence.

Scott stopped to sniff the air before answering. "Uh, it's kind of complicated. When I first was bit, I didn't really have an alpha to follow."

"He was a half-comatose, full on psychopathic werewolf with a grudge against the Argents," completed Stiles. Scott nodded his agreement.

"After Peter was killed, Derek was the alpha, then he lost it and I sort of gained it without any real connection." Scott rubbed the back of his neck embarrassedly, "I'm apparently something called a true alpha."

"What about you?" Stiles stared openly at his phone, his face washed in the unnatural luminescence of his Android screen. "What makes you go from law school to living out of crappy motels and a car? A really awesome car, by the way."

Sam was about to answer—not that he knew what he would reply—but he was saved as Stiles whooped quietly in victory ad Lydia's photo finally arrived to Scott and Stiles. Sam had to admit that the drawing was fairly good, and accurate to what he remembered of his vision. For a second time within a few minutes, Sam was interrupted before be could respond. He wanted to comment on the realistic talent the drawing showed, but Scott beat him to speaking.

"Uh, Stiles?"

Both Sam and Stiles turned to see the alpha standing motionless in front of a sepulcher. His flashlight enlightened the name carved into the marble, but the manmade moon brought more than just Elizabeth Queen's moniker. A sentinel, chiseled into the side of the building, was frozen in her mourning, her glorious wings shrouding her stone tunic like a cape. The sight alone sunk Sam's gut in dread, but he had dealt with that feeling enough that he still was able to function.

"Scott, Stiles, walk away. Slowly."

Their flashlights began to flicker until they spluttered out completely. All Sam could think was 'crap,' before her sight gifted his eyes.

She looked similar to when they had last seen her at the Archers. A nonexistent wind continuously raised her deadly golden hair, a shadowy light obscuring her face and intensifying the black blood staining her white silk dress. Obsidian crimson coursed down her arms in rivulets, a pulsing heart flickering into existence then oblivion in her open hand.

"Crap," Stiles voiced.

~•~

**11:12 p.m.**

Of all the times he had been in cemeteries, he still never liked them. Which, he figured, was probably a good thing. The first step into becoming a psychopath would be liking to hang out with dead people. There was something to be said about him feeling more comfortable with dead people in creepy places than alive socialites in elite society, but in Dean's mind, that was completely understandable.

"—and you have no idea what this beacon is?" The two teenagers had started the conversation with the hunter in the impala, explaining the entire situation with the darach and the sacrifices they made to save their parents. The sheriff, apparently unaware of what his son had done, had reacted understandably, but in the end accepted that nothing really bad and irreversible had happened.

Allison bit her lip. She had dealt with the visions, Stiles had overcome his sudden illiteracy, and Scott regained control of his werewolf instinct, but she still felt that hole in her stomach where something should have been. "How do you always know what to do?" She settled on.

"My dad kept this journal, any creature and supernatural thing he came across in his travels. Sam and I start with that, but we've been doing this since we were kids. There are some things so engrained in us that its more natural than breathing."

They separated briefly, walking in between different mausoleums that may house an angry spirit, but none of them matched Lydia's newly arrived sketch. When Dean stepped back into the more open area of Martsonsville Cemetery, he wasn't greeted with the sight of a silent beta werewolf, sheriff, and teenage hunter. Rather he only saw the hunter and law enforcement official.

Allison noticed his disappearance first, but she stopped short from her retreat behind the stone mound Isaac had circumvented. Her hand twitched oddly, like she wanted to reach for her crossbow but couldn't. The sheriff and Dean noticed this, but Dean was the first to draw the correct conclusion.

Gordon Walker, in all his glory, stepped around the sepulcher, shotgun aimed at Allison's chest. He tisked lightly at Sheriff Stilinski, who had reached for his sidearm as soon as he saw a man he was not familiar with. Stilinski froze, a sneer making its way onto his face despite his usual stoicism. The malevolent hunter, keeping Allison in his sights as he did so, maneuvered closer to the sheriff until he was able to strike him, immediately knocking the man into unconsciousness.

"Gordon," Dean growled.

"Hello, Dean."

**This is going to be a relatively short story, but if anyone has a suggestion about little conversations or situations or anything you want to see, I'm open to writing it if it works.**

***The local newspaper**

**Also, I know I've thrown a lot of names around and fast so here's a summary of killer and their connections.**

**Chrissy Kyle—1st killer**

**Robert Kyle—1st victim, was cheating on Chrissy Kyle**

**Joshua Kyle—brother to Robert, took the necklace from the Kyle house**

**Noah Mason—2nd killer**

**Maddison Mason—2nd victim, was cheating on her husband**

**Karen Archer—3rd killer** **(prevented)**


	8. Chapter 8

"Where's your brother, Dean?"

"Bite me, Gordon."

The hunter smiled. He always liked the fire that coursed through each of the Winchesters, only this time that fire was corrupted and poison in Sammy's veins. He had to prevent Sam from becoming what he was meant to be, and if he had to cause Dean pain to do it, he would. He motioned for Dean to step backwards then turned to Allison, "you too Argent."

The hesitant outrage that sparked in Dean's eyes frightened Allison. She knew he was prone to violent outbursts—and she didn't think Dean would actually hurt her—but having that ire focused on her was unnerving nonetheless.

"You knew he was in town?" he demanded. "And you didn't tell us?"

"Relax, Dean. She thought her old man would be able to slow me down long enough to finish your little hunt." Walker was close enough to Dean that if he were to fire, almost all of the buckshot would find some part of Dean to tear through, and if he were unlucky, any stray shards would find the girl. "Now, tell me where little Sammy is."

Dean was saved from answering by Kansas, but that in turn did nothing to save Sam. Gordon's black eyes followed the sound to Dean's jacket pocket. All three hunters let it ring twice before Gordon motioned to the phone with his gun.

Dean could see by Allison's posture she had an idea, some stupid notion that she was going to warn the others about the man holding them hostage. While digging the ringing device out of his leather pocket, he caught her gaze, wide-eyed. Trying not to tip of Gordon, he shook his head and was relieved when she uncoiled slightly.

"Dean," his brother was yelling on the other line. Even holding the phone up to his ear, Gordon and Allison could hear the Winchester's every word.

Dean cut off his brother before he could say anything more, "Sam, we just finished up with our first cemetery, and let me tell you, it's one funky town." He had long ago perfected hiding his emotions, it being one requirement of the job, and so when Dean answered the phone, he sounded like the same light-hearted Dean Winchester.

Sam hesitated for only a second. "Well you can stop your search 'cause we found her." One of the teenagers in Sam's party howled, but it could have been a really angry Stiles for all Dean knew.

"What? Where?"

"Marstonsville."

Gordon grinned victoriously. He motioned for Dean to hang up the phone, and after a quick goodbye and reassurance that they'd be joining him soon, Dean did as he was told. Gordon kept pressing the two back towards his scrap metal car. As soon as they were practically resting on the beat up, peeling paint, Gordon replaced his shotgun with a standard pistol, resuming his aim on the older hunter. "We're going to take a little trip to Marstonsville Cemetery. Get in the car."

Dean tried to keep his eyes on the road, but having a gun pressed up against his neck was fairly distracting and Allison would not sit still, which he saw out of the corner of his eyes. Gordon crouched in the back of his own car, watching carefully the road signs that stretched past in the dark. He had to make sure Dean was going the right way, which Dean had debated before deciding that Allison's life was not worth the risk.

"So, Gordy," Dean grinned. "I know me and Sam ain't exactly your favorite people, but don't you think this is a little extreme?"

Gordon's eyes traced the words 'Marstonsville, ten miles,' before answering in his usual slimy manner, "Like I told your little friend here. This isn't revenge."

"Well we did leave you tied up in your own mess for three days," Dean chuckled, though it wasn't as light as he would normally laugh. He was too close to Marstonsville to feel really like laughing. He tried still. "Which was awesome. Sorry, I shouldn't laugh."

Gordon cracked a smile beside himself. "Yeah, I was definitely planning on whuppin' your ass for that." He paused again, searching for the sign for the local church and burial ground. "But that's not what this is. I'm a hunter, Dean, and Sammy's fair game."

~.~

Scott landed uncomfortably next to Stiles, who was undoubtedly glad his very solid best friend hadn't come down directly on top of him and was vocally grumbling about having already done this fight before. Scott had to agree with the unfairness of it , but nevertheless, he growled—already, as Stiles loved to put it, "wolfed out"—and charged the bloody phantom. No matter if he struck with his supernatural claws or simply tried to punch with his closed fists, Scott continued to fall through the ghost till it grew annoyed with his attacks and sent him on his way. He probably would have been more of a nuisance if he hadn't lost his iron blade in the first few minutes after the ghost had appeared. The rusty knife had gone flying off into the blue yonder and only Stiles and Sam were the only ones left with a weapon.

Stiles swung full force with his bat. Under normal circumstances, a baseball bat wouldn't do much in the way of killing the undead, but they had fiddled with Stiles's favorite weapon and covered it with a thick salt lining. It still didn't mean he could land a blow on the ghostly woman. Sam took the blunt of the hit, who had been behind the ghost at the time Stiles had swung, but he managed to rip the object out of the kid's hand.

Both went flying and landed next to Scott.

"Why don't you just die!" Stiles yelled. A soaring rock crashed next to him in answer.

Sam, Scott, and Stiles scrambled behind a mausoleum, one different from the one that they needed to get into to incinerate the remains. The ghost of Elizabeth Queen never moved from the entrance to her tomb, so their little reprieve went undisturbed. The hunter took the time to dig out his phone.

"Dean," Sam yelled as soon as the phone stopped ringing. Stiles and Scott glanced at him curiously when his brow furrowed worriedly. "Well you can stop your search 'cause we found her…Marstonsville." He disconnected the call. "Dean's in trouble. Someone's got a gun on him."

"How do you know?"

Sam was busy staring at his phone's screen to monitor what he was about to admit to. "He said a code word: Funky town." He paused and groaned. "Well, he thought of it. It's kind of a…long story. I... Look never mind; we need to distract her," Sam breathed out. "We need to get into that mausoleum."

"How?" Scott snatched up his friend's bat and handed it to its owner. "She's not even interested in chasing us away."

"I don't know. Do something. Distract her, I'll burn the bones."

Stiles palmed the bat and grinned. "Distract her. I can do that." He dashed out from their hiding place and waved his arms over his head, yelling at the top of his lungs. The ghost flickered uninterestedly, at least until her form comprehended the words he was shouting.

"I had this girlfriend once, well it was more like three. And polygamy? It's like heaven on earth."

His friends stared at him confusedly, but eventually they caught on when the ghost grew more corporeal than not. The rosy blood that glowed from her silk dress deepened into a more life-like crimson, her hair a more dirty gold.

"Her reason for being here," Sam whispered.

Scott jumped in behind his best friend and tossed him out of the way before tangible hands could thrust themselves through Stiles's chest. They stared at each other for a second then started yelling and moving from place to place.

Sam waited until they had baited the apparition far enough away from the crypt doors that he could stand comfortably before them. Decorated iron doors creaked as they opened, but other than the initial resistance of age, the stuffy charnel house was the same as any catacomb he had been in. The marble coffin rested in the center of the tomb, leaving little room to move in between the enclosing walls and the extravagant ridge placed on top.

Sam slipped his backpack off, letting it topple onto the floor. In previous times, he and his brother would take off the cover together, often Dean making jokes about mummies and 'those fancy coffins with faces and animal jars they stuff their mummy guts in.' In ideal circumstances, the brothers would take their time in sautéing the bones in lighter fluid then competing with each other as to who could throw the match and actually catch the fumes with the flame.

He remembered one time Dean had sauntered into the crypt with his leather jacket, trying to emanate dad, and had full blown Sparta-kicked the top to the coffin intending to knock it off entirely. Needless to say the next few weeks he was forced to walk around in a boot as more than one bone in his foot broke under the strain of hitting the marble.

This time, Sam took care to slide the ton of stone off the tomb. He was prepared for the smell, so when the fumes of the toxic, decomposing bones reached his nose, he barely flinched instead of retching. Not much was left of the adornments that had covered the corpse. Little scraps of black cloth still stretched over the tawny bones, and the hair and nails in the coffin was gray and powdered among the decomposing soil. It took a few seconds to dowse the bones in the three bottles of kerosene and a full pounds worth of salt—they had decided that one of each wouldn't be enough to ensure there wasn't a piece of her left.

Sam was about to light the bones up when a force threw him against the wall. He cracked his head hard on the stone surface, hard enough to force him to drop the packet of matches. He couldn't see the ghost, but the fact the two teenage boys appeared in the crypt was enough to prove she was no longer bothered by their taunts.

With less than a thought to actually what he was doing, Sam had taken what was left in the bag of salt and showered it across the small sepulcher room. Salt rained from the corners, and a packet of matches, fully on fire ignited the fumes rising from the grave.

~.~

"So this is how it's supposed to be like?"

Sam grinned. "Yeah, pretty much."

With the ghost now definitely, permanently destroyed, Sam, Scott, and Stiles made their way through the patched grass and raven stones. Now that the horror movie-like reality was over, the cemetery returned to its normal, creepy type atmosphere. There were still very few lights and the smoke grey clouds swiftly covered most of the visible stars, but Stiles no longer felt that urge to write his own obituary. What he did notice was the slight nagging in his throat in place of his own demise.

Stiles hesitated in his step, fixing it quickly when he stumbled over the uneven terrain. "Didn't you say Dean was in trouble?"

Sam's smile fell from its somewhat happy expression. "Yeah, I know." He had taken out his phone, watching the screen blankly. Since Sam's initial call to tell Dean they had found the ghost, there had been no attempt to contact them by the older Winchester, which under the circumstances and Dean's choice of words was worrisome.

"Maybe it was a mistake?" Scott proposed. "He may have just said it by accident."

Stiles scoffed at his friend, the same tone he would use when telling a two-year old they were wrong. "How many people do you know that use 'funky town' on a regular basis?"

Sam intervened before the two could continue their usual banter. "There's no way he'd use the code word. Dean knows what it means." He stopped just before the jeep, leaning against the hood as he sighed.

"Right you are, Sammy," a voice called from the shadows in the road. Distantly, small lights echoed off of the sleek, black paint of the impala, three human shaped figures becoming a mirage to the side. One shadow was thicker and more bulky than the thinner, more shapely and feminine to the right. The closer Sam inspected, the starker the image of three people became.

Allison stepped into the street light first, her hands stretch out straight, her arms in a V-shape to show she wasn't going to try anything. The moment her facial expressions were distinguishable from the rest of her obscured form, she proved Dean hadn't made a mistake. The young hunter wasn't terrified, but she was pissed and alarmed. Her crossbow was nowhere on her person, her kunai knives gone from their sheath at her hip.

The second to appear was Dean, but he was far from as free as Allison. His hands were trussed in front of him with course ropes, and his plaid over-shirt bunched at the nape of his neck, suggesting there was something, or someone, holding the fabric so as to prevent the hunter from moving too far away. They made their way one step at a time

**Gordon uses Dean as a human shield. He forces Dean forward, whose hands are tied with rope. Allison is in his sights of his ****Zastava. Stiles and Scott almost rush to the hostages, but Gordon says I'd stay where you are, if I were you. They stop, and Sam seems frozen. **

"See, I was doing an exorcism down in Louisiana. Teenage girl, seemed routine, some low-level demon. But between all the jabbering and head-spinning, the damn thing muttered something. About a coming war. And I don't think it meant to, it just kind of slipped out. But it was too late. Piqued my interest. And you can really make a demon talk, if you got the right tools."

"What happened to the girl? The one being possessed?" Scott demanded.

The hunter looked at the alpha straightly. "She didn't make it," he admitted apathetically.

Dean shook his head in disgust, at least as much as he could as Gordon still had a forceful grip on the back of his shirt. "Well, you're a son of a bitch."

It took a moment for Gordon to move. He stared at his captive slightly, as if deciding how to react, then he struck the back of Dean's head with his other hand. Dean ground his teeth together, his knees buckling momentarily, before he regained his control and chuckled darkly.

"That's my momma you're talking about."

Sam was frozen through this whole ordeal, the same with Scott and Stiles. The same worry for a different person was all either could think about, and it was slowly cutting away at their veins. Sam, obviously was worried about his brother, who at the moment was the only thing stopping Sam from tearing the wicked hunter apart. Scott kept his eyes on Allison, and although he was worried for Dean's and Sam's safety, he wanted Allison away from any potential fight. Stiles's mind was far away from the San Margetta graveyard. Allison and Dean had come under duress, but neither of them had even mentioned his father.

"Where's my dad?" he demanded.

Gordon continued like the sheriff's son hadn't even spoke. "Anyway, this demon tells me there are soldiers to fight in this coming war. Humans, fighting on hell's side. You believe that? I mean they're psychics, so they're not exactly pure humans, but still." His gaze never once moved away from Sam's face, even as Dean struggled against his grip. "What kind of worthless scumbag have you got to be to turn against your own race? But you know the biggest kick in the ass? This demon said I knew one of them."

All eyes slowly turned to where Sam was rooted to the ground, knuckles white, mouth set in a scowl.

"Our very own Sammy Winchester. I'm sorry. I wish I didn't have to do this, but for what it's worth, it'll be quick."

Gordon finally made the mistake, and Dean had had enough of the bastard threatening his brother's life. The hunter began to move his gun to aim at Sam, and in the motion, Dean drove his elbow deep into Gordon's gut.

With an opening in sight, all hell broke loose, figuratively. Sam charged just as Gordon retaliated and drove the butt of the pistol into the nape of Dean's neck. Allison and Scott fought to get closer to the struggling hunters, the alpha intent on forcing his ex-girlfriend away from the fight while the former wanted to help. Neither won, as the two teens lost solid footing and managed to trip Stiles on the way down. But neither Sam nor Dean really noticed what the Beacon Hills inhabitants were doing.

Blood seeped out of the youngest Winchester's mouth from a tooth knocked loose, but he barely noticed the pain. He held tightly onto the hand still grasping the gun, but there were too many appendages to make sense of what and who Sam was attacking. But it didn't matter as the deadly alloy somehow moved from Gordon Walker's hand to Sam's own, and Dean was knocked to Scott's and Stiles's feet.

Gordon, seeing the tables turned, focused on Dean, who had scrambled to his feet. He kept away from his brother and the other hunter, much like how Sam had reacted when Dean had held Argent in the sight of his own firearm. Sam's hand gripped and re-gripped the handle, one on top of the other.

Stiles had known that the brothers killed things on a regular basis, and they've dealt with death more than even the Beacon Hills inhabitants. There was bound to be some sort of resounding effect and anger that lingered in the back of their minds, a blurred feeling of whether there's a difference between killing the undead and demonic monsters and killing the living. Looking at Sam and his shaking hands, Stiles saw the battle between hesitation and hatred.

Gordon, seeing there was no way in hell he could reason with Sam, turned to Dean, who was hovering just out of the line of fire. His hands were still tied with the coarse rope, but he nevertheless tried to use them to stop his baby brother.

"You can't see it yet, Dean," Gordon rushed, "but it's his destiny. I get it: he's your brother, you love the guy. This has got to hurt like hell for you—"

"Shut up," Sam hissed. He stepped closer.

"—but your dad? If it really came right down to it, he would have had the stones to do the right thing."

"Shut up!" The gun shook violently and uncontrollably in his hand. Sam was a foot from the other hunter now, the gun practically between his ebony eyes. Gordon was nervous now, shifting minutely from one foot to the other. His eyes crossed to stare at the weapon.

"You wouldn't shoot me, would you, Sammy? Because your brother, he thinks you're some kind of saint. I bet these kids feel the same way."

"Yeah? I wouldn't be so sure."

"Stop!" Scott probably wanted to jump between the two men, but the distance was too short so he settled for placing himself in Sam's sights. "We don't kill people."

Stiles moved similarly, only to the left of the hunter rather than the right. "Even if they deserve it."

Gordon's eyes traced every moment but always fell back to the gun pointed at his head. "You're no better than the things you hunt. Do it. Do it! Show your brother the killer you really are, Sammy!"

Dean didn't know what his brother would do. Truth be told, he wasn't sure what he wanted his brother to do. Dean wanted to kill the man who tried to kill Sammy, but killing someone who wasn't evil—in the supernatural sense—was different and possibly the one push that would turn Sam into what their father feared.

In a second, Sam had made his decision. He crossed the last of the distance between him and Gordon, and struck the butt of the pistol brutally against the hunter's head. "It's Sam," he growled.

Any and every awkward conversation that would have followed was prevented by the arrival of blaring sirens and a flashing police car. Luckily, one was by far the closest and the friendliest. The sheriff's car sped past the scene of the confrontation and parked in the shade of the cemetery to anyone would really have to look for the jeep to actually see it. With the engine still running and barely having put it in park, the sheriff of Beacon Hills dropped out of the jeep. Relief was evident on his face when he saw the kids were all unharmed, although it turned to anger and an unidentifiable emotion when he saw the crumpled form.

"Please tell me—"

"He's not dead," finished Stiles hurriedly.

The sheriff nodded. "Good," he sighed. He stepped behind the large group, resting one hand on Allison's shoulder and urged the frozen girl to begin moving back into the cemetery. "But right now, we need to move. Go."

"What—m"

"Not now," the sheriff urged. He grabbed his son's arm and dragged him to where the bright blue jeep rested on the grass. At any other time, Stilinski would have criticized the pathetic parking job and how careless it was, but with an army of police cars, that was not the right time.

Dean followed similarly, Sam trailing behind him, and already had the Impala's engine humming before his brother had even touched the passenger side's handle. The shifting of locations took less than a minute, terminating the engines and any electronic light just as four blue and white patrols spun into the miniature parking lot, which was closer to a square cut road.

Dean's eyes never left the eight police officers as they prepared to do a search of the area as he said, "Dude, if you ever take off like that again…"

Sam cracked a sideways grin, "What? You'll kill me?"

"That is so not funny," groaned the elder Winchester. But even he couldn't keep away the grin when he saw one of the officers preform a search of the abandoned vehicle belonging to a one Gordon Walker. Among the random searching, the secret storage of bloody weapons, linking the hunter to dozens of murders, was slid from its hiding spot behind the driver's side seat. The three officers who had wandered into the graveyard returned with aforementioned hunter in handcuffs and a nasty, bleeding cut above his eye.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

* * *

**Alright, very sorry for how short this is, but I'm slowly losing inspiration: seeping out of my head while other stories sneak in the back door.**

**The comments really help though **** and as answer to one of the reviews, I did mean to put some of the nogitsune and evil Stiles in the story, but I forgot till it was a little late to randomly throw in the chapters. I did mention it and reference it if you read carefully, but Kira is not one of my favorite characters.**

**If you want me to continue it with the Winchesters aiding for a chapter I will, but without further ado: the penultimate chapter.**

**Also for ideas for stories, if any of these sound goo, give me a shout**

**Batman and Arrow**

**Assassin's Creed and X-Over -Ranger's Apprentice, Arrow, Young Justice, or Chuck**

**Daredevil (Netflix) and Arrow**

**Throw any ideas together that sound good**


	9. Chapter 9

**I** **changed the ending to math up with a crossover with NCIS. Message or comment if you're interested**

_Otorojnost: Lyekgo._ Stiles repeatedly read the label. Forwards, backwards, holding the can upside down and reading it then sideways, and still the words didn't make sense. _Why didn't_ they_ make sense_? He was pretty sure he'd learned how to read in kindergarten, at least first grade, and he was in the—what, eleventh?

His eyes scanned the ingredients. Still nothing. He tried shaking the can of cooking oil—at least that's what he thought he was holding, for all he knew it could be neon glitter spray—and reading the label again. Stiles was so intent upon deciphering the strange combination of letters he failed to notice the commotion that had entered into his kitchen.

Scott leaned across the counter and helped himself to an apple, fiddling with it rather than eating it. He motioned to the aluminum can in his friend's hand. "You planning on cooking something?"

_So it was cooking spray…_ Stiles bit back the vile revolt in his stomach and smirked. "Nah, it's this new snack-kick. Kinda like spray cheese."

"Spray cheese? Love that stuff," a second voice added. Dean and his enormously tall, baby brother also appeared in the Stilinski household. "Though you gotta watch where you aim that stuff, or you got a whole other problem to deal with."

"You mean besides a clogged artery?" Sam responded dryly.

"Hey, with our line of work, we got to live in the moment."

Scott snorted and bit into his apple. He was slowly returning to his furry tailed self, at least on the outside. Stiles could see the sleepless nights that threatened to spill into the waking hours at school. And it wasn't the discovery of demons and ghosts that was the cause of their insomnia—though that probably didn't help. After all, they thought they only had to fight off the occasional psychotic wolf and lizard-creature, and now they had to worry about vengeful spirits, which coming from Beacon Hills, was more likely than anywhere else.

The pressing matter of the murderous ghost and the arrival of the two infamous hunters sidelined and momentarily healed the issues the local pack had been suffering from. Now that the ghost was sent back to wherever the hell ghosts actually go and things were returning to normal, Stiles and Scott had begun to feel the affects of the Nematon once again. Somehow Stiles imagined his deal was a lot worse than Scott's or Allison's, though.

"—bad about that chick though. That sucks," Dean was saying. "I mean I'd divorce her too if I was almost cannibalized by my sweetheart, but still."

"He isn't pressing charges though," Stiles interjected. He grabbed his own piece of fruit and took a bite to distract himself from his newfound illiteracy. "Sergeant Archer put in her request for a transfer last night. To some small town in Nevada, I think."

"What about the others?" Scott asked. "They're victims too…"

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. It was the same exact thing Scott and Stiles shared whenever they were going to wave off something that on normal circumstances—like dead bodies, a friend attempting to maul his other friend, and so on—should not be shrugged off. Scott saw the exchange as well as he then turned to Stiles with this warning glint in his eyes.

"It's a shame, but—"

"But there's nothing you can really do for them," Sam finished. "Other than the Sheriff, who's your _dad_, how would you explain to the law enforcement and criminal justice that a malevolent spirit possessed them and

Whatever discussion followed was white noise to Stiles. Maybe one quarter of his mind was focused on the hunters and alpha—cause no matter what Stiles's mind was never on just one thing—but the other three fourths were intently scouring for a source. Painfully angry and Stiles had no idea why. It had been slowly building up in the background, when Scott had brushed off one of his ideas then the same with the Winchesters. Little stuff, but he grew angrier and more frighteningly pissed off as the days passed. And now he was here.

It felt as if someone had betrayed him, sliced open his gut while staring him in the eyes rather than the back, and he wanted everyone to pay for what that individual had done. Because it would be fun. It would bring him amusement. And that was what terrified Stiles.

He wanted to bring pain, at the same time he wanted to protect everyone else. The hatred was practically tangible, its residue buzzing in his ears, his fervent heartbeat echoing in his mind. Stiles clenched his fist beyond his normal tolerance, preventing him from lashing out at those in the kitchen with him. His nails punctured the skin of the apple in his palm, and the multitude of bones in his hands protested painfully. His knuckles blanched from the strain.

And then it was gone.

Physically and mentally fatigued, Stiles hid any sign that he'd had a mental collapse and bit away the evidence left in the apple. Around a mouthful of juicy fruit, he mumbled, "so where you headed now that there's no case?"

Dean shrugged. "One word: Amsterdam."

"Dean." Sam snapped.

"Come on, man, I hear the coffee shops don't even serve coffee."

"Dean, I'm not just gonna ditch the job—"

"Screw the job. Screw it, man, I'm sick of the job anyway. I mean, we don't get paid, we don't get thanked. The only thing we get's bad luck—"

For a second time, Stiles found himself losing focus in the conversation. Only this time he was joined by Scott. The friends exchanged glances that shared the same uncomfortable feeling, the kind only outsiders get when they walk into someone's family argument. Luckily, the front door banged open then was promptly closed and locked meaning most likely Stiles's father was home for some reason.

"Look, Dean, I've tried running before. I mean, I ran all the way to California and look what happened. You can't run from this. And you can't protect me." Sam acknowledged the Sheriff long enough to catch his breath but re focused on his brother. "I'm gonna keep hunting. I mean, whatever is coming, I'm taking it head on, so if you really want to watch my back, then I guess you're gonna have to stick around."

Dean was silent. It was possible he didn't want to make a scene in front of Stiles, Scott, and the sheriff, or he wanted more privacy to really share his feelings. He began shaking his head, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So where we headed then?"

"If you're looking for another case," Sheriff Stilinski suggested, "a couple old friends of mine are in various Washington PD stations who've been dealing with a lot of strange deaths recently."

"Washington?" Sam grinned. "Sounds as good as any."

"D.C." clarified the Sheriff. Sam looked much less enthusiastic, but Dean seemed fine by the change in location. He continued to grin maniacally, ferally.

"What's the deal?"

The Sheriff shrugged and pulled a small card from his overcoat. "There's been a series of...strange drownings. Some even on land."

Dean stepped behind his brother and clapped him on the shoulder. He may have said he wanted to quit the hunting business, but Stiles could see the drive behind his eyes, the love for hunting those that hunt others. If it had been anyone else, Stiles would have worried about Dean turning into a psychopathic murderer, killing anyone he deemed 'evil,' but luckily he had his baby brother to keep him in line. Hopefully.

"We've gone off less," Dean grinned. Sam shrugged nonchalantly, his hands shoved into his pockets.

The two brothers shuffled awkwardly, but once Sam stood up, they immediately headed for the door. Scott and the sheriff thanked the hunters profusely and politely escorted them out. Stiles, however, stayed where he was in the kitchen. His gaze focused on a magazine that happened to be splayed out across the table. _Ohn Chitayet Po-Nemetsky_. He tried to read the next column: _Mondus Klein._

Without a second's thought, Stiles tore out of the house, past a confused Scott and bewildered dad. They didn't follow, thankfully, but allowed Stiles to say goodbye alone.

"Wait!" he called.

Sam and Dean had their hands on the roof of the car, conversing quietly over the Impala. They turned to the young man and grinned. Dean said, "Sorry, but you can't come with us. This is solely a two man job."

Stiles shook his head. "Uh, I was just wondering—or thinking—wondering about other supernatural things…"

"What'd you mean?"

"Uh, how we know if we're dealing with certain things," Stiles breathed. "Like vampires, or other ghosts, or—demon possession." He tried to act nonchalant. He tried to hide his fear when saying the last two words, but his voice hitched slightly. Stiles didn't know if he really thought he was possessed, but he certainly knew something was going on.

"For a possession, there's a number of ways to tell someone's not themselves. My favorite's Holy Water: burns them on contact. Then there's saying the Lord's name. It kind of makes 'em twitch."

The earth jumped beneath Stiles' feet, but he stood still. His mouth was suddenly dry. His palms were moist, and he had to focus carefully to form words in English. "The Lord's name?"

Sam answered this time. "Yeah, in Latin. _Christo_."

Stiles almost flinched, and he would have had he not known that flinching meant he was possessed by a demon. But he didn't. And he wasn't.

"See you around, Stiles," and the brothers were gone.

There wasn't anything inside his head except for himself. _And me_.

~.~

Dean ducked underneath the yellow crime scene tape, swiftly followed by his brother. They aimed straight for the bathroom, where a collection of uniforms still fumbled—in Dean's opinion—with crime scene photos and sketches. Luckily they were D.C. cops rather than FBI so Sam and Dean were able to once again use their fake federal badges. The local police scattered, scowling defensively, but the Winchester brothers simply focused on the poor woman, the third in the row of deaths, on the cool, tiled floor in a pool of crimson water, a mixture of blood from where she'd cracked her head on the granite sink counter and the water she'd expelled from her lungs.

"What d'you think? Ghost child who was drowned in the tub?" Dean asked quietly. He used a pen to gently prod the hair away from the poor girl's face.

"Definitely a possible ghost, but the other two deaths didn't happen in a bathroom."

"She could've dragged herself in here after she started to feel like she was drowning," suggested the older brother.

Sam glanced at the red splotches on the otherwise cranberry colored stone counters. "No, she collapsed in here. Probably tried to throw up the stuff in her lungs. I can't find anything wrong with her," Sam mused

"You mean aside from her being dead?" The look Dean received was cold enough and annoyed enough to freeze over hell.

"I mean ghost signs. They usually leave a mark: phantom bruises, cuts, brands."

As the two hunters conversed about the different possibilities, a black SUV arrived outside the house. The driver, a silver-haired man, was the first to exit the vehicle. His team fell in step with him as he approached the officer in charge of the scene. A medical van also pulled up to the scene shortly after, two men, one older and British and the other yound and American, were loudly exchanging differences in opinions on how one should read a map.

Special agent Gibbs held out his NCIS badge, expecting to immediately become the lead agency as the most recent victim was a petty officer on leave. His thoughts, however, were quickly rearended when the LEO said bluntly, "you spelled CSI wrong..."

The young man started to chuckle only to freeze at the federal agent's fiery stare. A second agent of NCIS came up behind Gibbs, offered his own badge, and smiled condescendingly, "it stands for Naval–Criminal–Investigative–Service." He pointed to each letter as he explained the acronym. "You know: boats and things."

Sergeant Downey, the lead officer, sobered and stood at attention, almost mockingly. He had already received this sort of treatment from the two FBI agents inside, he didn't exactly want it from some other agency he'd never even heard of. But there was nothing he could do about jurisdiction, as Agent Gibbs explained the implication behind the petty officer's death.

"Sorry, sir. I just thought the FBI would be handling the case."

"And why is that, Sergeant?" Gibbs demanded.

"Uh—well, because they're inside right now..."

The look that was exchanged between the NCIS team was all Downey needed to see as he slowly backed away and allowed for the two federal agencies to have their pissing contest in private.

**So a short goodbye, but if anyone is interested I set it up to possibly do a sequel/other story in the NCIS and Supernatural universe...**


	10. Alternative Ending and Crossover

**I** **changed the ending to math up with a crossover with NCIS. Message or comment if you're interested**

"If you're looking for another case," Sheriff Stilinski suggested, "a couple old friends of mine are in various Washington PD stations who've been dealing with a lot of strange deaths recently."

"Washington?" Sam grinned. "Sounds as good as any."

"D.C." clarified the Sheriff. Sam looked much less enthusiastic, but Dean seemed fine by the change in location. He continued to grin maniacally, ferally.

"What's the deal?"

The Sheriff shrugged and pulled a small card from his overcoat. "There's been a series of...strange drownings. Some even on land."

Dean stepped behind his brother and clapped him on the shoulder. He may have said he wanted to quit the hunting business, but Stiles could see the drive behind his eyes, the love for hunting those that hunt others. If it had been anyone else, Stiles would have worried about Dean turning into a psychopathic murderer, killing anyone he deemed 'evil,' but luckily he had his baby brother to keep him in line. Hopefully.

"We've gone off less," Dean grinned. Sam shrugged nonchalantly, his hands shoved into his pockets.

The two brothers shuffled awkwardly, but once Sam stood up, they immediately headed for the door. Scott and the sheriff thanked the hunters profusely and politely escorted them out. Stiles, however, stayed where he was in the kitchen. His gaze focused on a magazine that happened to be splayed out across the table. _Ohn Chitayet Po-Nemetsky_. He tried to read the next column: _Mondus Klein._

Without a second's thought, Stiles tore out of the house, past a confused Scott and bewildered dad. They didn't follow, thankfully, but allowed Stiles to say goodbye alone.

"Wait!" he called.

Sam and Dean had their hands on the roof of the car, conversing quietly over the Impala. They turned to the young man and grinned. Dean said, "Sorry, but you can't come with us. This is solely a two man job."

Stiles shook his head. "Uh, I was just wondering—or thinking—wondering about other supernatural things…"

"What'd you mean?"

"Uh, how we know if we're dealing with certain things," Stiles breathed. "Like vampires, or other ghosts, or—demon possession." He tried to act nonchalant. He tried to hide his fear when saying the last two words, but his voice hitched slightly. Stiles didn't know if he really thought he was possessed, but he certainly knew something was going on.

"For a possession, there's a number of ways to tell someone's not themselves. My favorite's Holy Water: burns them on contact. Then there's saying the Lord's name. It kind of makes 'em twitch."

The earth jumped beneath Stiles' feet, but he stood still. His mouth was suddenly dry. His palms were moist, and he had to focus carefully to form words in English. "The Lord's name?"

Sam answered this time. "Yeah, in Latin. _Christo_."

Stiles almost flinched, and he would have had he not known that flinching meant he was possessed by a demon. But he didn't. And he wasn't.

"See you around, Stiles," and the brothers were gone.

There wasn't anything inside his head except for himself. _And me_.

~.~

Dean ducked underneath the yellow crime scene tape, swiftly followed by his brother. They aimed straight for the bathroom, where a collection of uniforms still fumbled—in Dean's opinion—with crime scene photos and sketches. Luckily they were D.C. cops rather than FBI so Sam and Dean were able to once again use their fake federal badges. The local police scattered, scowling defensively, but the Winchester brothers simply focused on the poor woman, the third in the row of deaths, on the cool, tiled floor in a pool of crimson water, a mixture of blood from where she'd cracked her head on the granite sink counter and the water she'd expelled from her lungs.

"What d'you think? Ghost child who was drowned in the tub?" Dean asked quietly. He used a pen to gently prod the hair away from the poor girl's face.

"Definitely a possible ghost, but the other two deaths didn't happen in a bathroom."

"She could've dragged herself in here after she started to feel like she was drowning," suggested the older brother.

Sam glanced at the red splotches on the otherwise cranberry colored stone counters. "No, she collapsed in here. Probably tried to throw up the stuff in her lungs. I can't find anything wrong with her," Sam mused

"You mean aside from her being dead?" The look Dean received was cold enough and annoyed enough to freeze over hell.

"I mean ghost signs. They usually leave a mark: phantom bruises, cuts, brands."

As the two hunters conversed about the different possibilities, a black SUV arrived outside the house. The driver, a silver-haired man, was the first to exit the vehicle. His team fell in step with him as he approached the officer in charge of the scene. A medical van also pulled up to the scene shortly after, two men, one older and British and the other yound and American, were loudly exchanging differences in opinions on how one should read a map.

Special agent Gibbs held out his NCIS badge, expecting to immediately become the lead agency as the most recent victim was a petty officer on leave. His thoughts, however, were quickly rearended when the LEO said bluntly, "you spelled CSI wrong..."

The young man started to chuckle only to freeze at the federal agent's fiery stare. A second agent of NCIS came up behind Gibbs, offered his own badge, and smiled condescendingly, "it stands for Naval–Criminal–Investigative–Service." He pointed to each letter as he explained the acronym. "You know: boats and things."

Sergeant Downey, the lead officer, sobered and stood at attention, almost mockingly. He had already received this sort of treatment from the two FBI agents inside, he didn't exactly want it from some other agency he'd never even heard of. But there was nothing he could do about jurisdiction, as Agent Gibbs explained the implication behind the petty officer's death.

"Sorry, sir. I just thought the FBI would be handling the case."

"And why is that, Sergeant?" Gibbs demanded.

"Uh—well, because they're inside right now..."

The look that was exchanged between the NCIS team was all Downey needed to see as he slowly backed away and allowed for the two federal agencies to have their pissing contest in private.

**So a short goodbye, but if anyone is interested I set it up to possibly do a sequel/other story in the NCIS and Supernatural universe...**


End file.
